


Repercussions

by misomilk



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: M/M, drabble meme from tumblr, headcanons galore, unrequited undertaker->claudia, vindie, vintaker
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-16
Updated: 2016-10-23
Packaged: 2018-04-15 01:00:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 12
Words: 20,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4587030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misomilk/pseuds/misomilk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The chain of events between once-reaper and the child of his once-love, leading to his eventual downfall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kickcows](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kickcows/gifts).



> These are my drabble meme prompt fills for my beloved Kat. :'D This is allllllll for you, bb. /throws kisses at u/
> 
> Words in between slashes are italicized. I'll edit these eventually to actually format them as such, but for now I'll leave them as is. Please bear with me. Hahaha.
> 
> Happy reading. :')

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Drabble Meme #45 - "Tell me a secret."  
> WARNING: Sexual situations, though not graphic depiction.

There aren’t many things Undertaker is wrong about. One thing he /is/ wrong about, though, is he thought wouldn’t ever love any human more than he loved Claudia Phantomhive.

A human who could convince a reaper to step down from his position and live among humans. Clearly, no one else would have that much power over him. (And if there ever was, that person would definitely be his downfall.)

When he heard news that she now carried the child of a no name, he was heartbroken, as if all things that could cause laughter in the world disappeared in one swoop. She called to have him visit her that day, no doubt wanting to celebrate the news with him. He hoped he could.

“Aren’t you excited, ‘Taker?” She says with the most serene of her smiles. Given her (most of the time) rotten personality, smiles of such brilliance are rare, and seeing them made Undertaker not mind welcoming death right at that moment if that meant her smile were to be the last thing he ever sees. “So spirited even when they’re still so little.” She palms the bottom of her stomach then. “This one will be named Vincent, if a boy. If a girl, Frances.”

“No matter what name you give, that kid will be as much of a headache as you,” he laughs, munching on the tea crackers set before them.

“I’m sure.” She laughs with him. She turns silent, serious, for one moment, then she looks at him from across the small table. “Don’t give up on this child, okay? If you could love this child, care for it, that would please me well.”

He lifts his gaze from the plate to her purple eyes. He doesn’t voice his thoughts. /I wouldn’t ever love another human, Claudia. I wouldn’t ever dare./

He finishes his plate of cookies, listening to the child forming in her belly. Not even a heartbeat yet. But he hopes, he hopes dearly, the child would have her eyes.

***

When he sees the child for the first time, looking so small as he sleeps soundly in his loving mother’s arms, Undertaker frowns. He munches on the cookies Claudia gave him, crumbs gathering on his thighs.

He didn’t have her eyes.

***

“Uncle ‘Taker,” the child looks up at him with wide, brown eyes. Undertaker was on his way home, his report delivered to Claudia, when the child stops him in the middle of the entrance hall.

“Hihi,” Undertaker laughs, in actuality uncomfortable the child would call him by that nickname. But he lets it slip. “What’s wrong, little Phantomhive?”

The child walks closer to him, pulls on his long cloak in a silent plea for the once-reaper to bow down, which the latter follows. The boy leans closer to his ear, no doubt about to whisper some childish secret.

Instead, the child whispers, “Fooled you.” Undertaker feels large pang on his scalp when a small hand grabs at his hair and pulls hard. Not a second after, the child is already far from his reach, laughing as maniacally as a child could, a fistful of long, silver hair in hand.

That little brat.  
That little stinking hell forsaken brat.

Undertaker isn’t one to get angry, but he’s not letting this one go.

***

One time he visits, the child replaces his tea crackers with dog biscuits they feed to Sebastian.

Well, the joke’s on him. These are, apparently, very delicious.

(Perhaps a bit /too/ delicious, he can’t stop munching on these bone-shaped biscuits.)

***

When the child reached a tender, mischievous age of eight, Undertaker starts fearing what the little ball of evil was capable of. He doesn’t get mad at the pranks the child pulls on him anymore. He takes delight in how wicked the child is, instead.

“You have a horrible child, Claudia.”

The countess, as he expects, simply smiles, sipping her tea. “I know.”

***

It should have been one of the first things Undertaker noticed, considering he first looked at the child’s eyes when he first saw him, but only when he was thirteen did Undertaker realize he had a mole underneath his left eye.

Interesting.

***

When the child turned fourteen, the pranks stopped. Although he should’ve been happy about it, Undertaker was disappointed. They were such great sources of entertainment.

“Are you going through a rebellious age?” Undertaker laughs when the child, no longer much of a child, greets him at the entrance hall. “Or have you simply run out of tricks?”

“Oh, I still have tricks, mind you.” The child says with his voice cracking. Undertaker is quick to laugh at the terrible jump in pitch. “The next one’s gonna be big.”

“Oh?” Undertaker’s eyes widen, though the child doesn’t see. Good thing his bangs had grown long enough to hide the emotions in his eyes. “I look forward to it.”

***

It had only been a month after the child’s fifteenth birthday, when Claudia dies…

Claudia died…

Claudia died.

He fought to not have her soul ripped, but he couldn’t do a thing.

***

Undertaker never thought preparing someone for burial would ever feel this hurtful, but he wouldn’t ever let anyone else touch her, dig her resting place, lay her down.

When he looks across the most beautiful tomb he’d ever prepared, he sees the child, eyes downcast.

He realizes then. He hasn’t ever seen the child cry a single tear.

***

“You shouldn’t hold so much grief, my boy.”

“I don’t.”

“Oh? Hihi. If you say so.”

“Uncle Taker.”

“Yes?”

“Would you comfort me?”

***

“Hey,” he asks, brown eyes looking up at green. They lie naked in bed, the teen lying on his stomach, the once-reaper sitting against the headboard. The teen’s voice is full now, and no longer cracks, but it still makes Undertaker’s heart thump with the same excitement it did whenever he laughed at the other’s cracking, fourteen-year-old voice. “Tell me a secret.”

“A secret?” The once-reaper brushes hair off the nineteen year old’s forehead to see his eyes better. Not that he would really 'see’ them per se, not without glasses, but he does it anyway. He can sense the other’s mood in those brown orbs better when he does. “Don’t you already know all the parts where I feel good?”

The other laughs, low in his chest. “You give me too much praise.” He shifts on the bed, hoists himself, bare chests meeting as they kiss, the sheets in disarray beneath them. “Are you sure I know everything?”

Undertaker cups the teen’s left cheek, lets his thumb rest above that mark he so loves. “Try exploring a bit more, eh? Hihi.”

Their lips meet once more, skin sliding against skin, fingers grabbing, palming and stroking, for the nth time that night.

***

He warned them.

Take care of your soul. You only have one.

He warned them both.

Neither of them listened.

***

When Vincent dies…

When Vincent dies, Undertaker lays low.

How can the world mean anything now that even /he/ is gone?

***

Undertaker lets himself be found when a certain ten year old with a black butler searches for him. Once found, the child asks him to do things for him, in the same way /he/ used to.

He smiles when the child comes near, smiles after what seems like centuries though it has merely been a month since his death, since the world froze over.

He almost expects this child to pull at his hair, and laugh as maniacally as a child could. But he remembers this is Ciel, and not him. Not Vincent.

Though they’re a different color, this child has his eyes.

***

The teenager carries himself differently from the way /he/ does. Undertaker has been able to tell, from when Ciel was little, and until now that he’s almost as tall as his father. Ciel doesn’t have the same hesitation as /him/. Undertaker understands, because he and Ciel don’t have a same history to share, the way he had with /him/.

That is why it doesn’t take much effort on Ciel’s part to deal the final blow on the once-reaper, a special blade that deals great damage to reapers gorged right through his chest.

(Excellent, earl. Undertaker thinks. You’re smart enough to know I wouldn’t harm you the way I would tear your butler apart.)

Undertaker knew. Undertaker knew well for many years that his death can only come under the hands of the child of the man who’s had the biggest effect on him. Truly, he was only waiting for the time to come.

Now that his breath is escaping him, the child and butler looking down at his dying form, he realizes death is calming. He’d had it pass through his hands for so long, so long ago, but it has never felt quite as welcoming.

His eyesight is still blurry, but the child closes his face near his. (How unguarded, the once-reaper thinks, but it makes him smile anyway.) Undertaker can see that eye that is so much like his father’s. He can see it, crystal clear, and he could almost see the mole underneath where Undertaker loved touching /him/ most intimately.

As the lights fade from his sight, and the familiarity of death takes claim on him (though it’s strange to feel that it’s here to claim him rather than the soul he’s reaping), Undertaker smiles wider, keeps smiling wider until he’s laughing.

What a life well-lived, he thinks, that he could claim, even in the end, there was no other human who could ever have given him as much entertainment as Vincent Phantomhive.

There was no human he could have cared for more than him, too.

Undertaker continues cackling, and he hopes maybe now he can see for himself what he’d tried to study this past half century. If there truly /is/ an afterlife, for either human or reaper, maybe they can laugh together again there.

***

“So, what really was your secret?”

“My secret?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ve never, and perhaps never will, love someone as much as I do you.”

“Idiot.” The other laughs. “I already knew that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title rant !!!  
> I'm a bit uneasy with the title. I think I'm using "Repercussions" a teeeeeny, tiny bit off, but it was the first title I thought of that I was quite satisfied with, and it just clicked. Except for the (as I mentioned) 'I think I'm using the word wrong' lol I checked the dictionary, and it says:  
> 1 (usu. repercussions) an unintended consequence occurring some time after an event or action, esp. an unwelcome one : the move would have grave repercussions for the entire region.  
> 2 archaic the recoil of something after impact.  
> 3 archaic an echo or reverberation.  
> (src: New Oxford American Dictionary, which is in my mac... LOL)
> 
> \--which are all p much what I wanted to entitle this fic for, so?? Wise decision? Probably? Haha. I most especially want to point out the 'unintended consequence' part of the definition, which is a theme I quite like playing with in these series of prompt fills. Or so I think. Hehe.
> 
> Anyhow, thank you for reading !! I hope you are able to enjoy this piece. =)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Someone’s happy to see me.  
> WARNING: Sexual themes. More headcanon explosions.  
> My [soundtrack](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qdBUVVKDBjA) while I was writing this.

“Someone’s happy to see me.” says the man from across the room. He sits on the same chair as she did, in the same office, behind the same desk. There’s a smile on his face, but there’s no twinkle of joy in his usually radiant eyes.

Well, this is quite unfair. (Though, really, he should have known this was coming from the beginning. Humans. What fickle creatures.)

It’s heartbreaking, so much so that it saps the energy from his legs. He’d almost fell to the floor if he hadn’t grabbed hold of the nearby chair.

He looks across the room to his beloved Vincent, and the man standing behind him, his beloved’s perhaps new object of affection, the German hound he’d longed for for the longest time. He should have known that, much like Claudia, he would lose Vincent to one of the prizes he’d take away from his missions for the old witch.

Why must this be? Why must he be the only one who’s happy to see the other is still alive? Why must he be the one always waiting and then being left behind?

“Hello, Earl.” he bows, his typical laughter coming out of a smile he forces on. Calling him ‘Earl’ rather than Vincent stabs his heart stronger than he thought it could. “I’m pleased to see you’re doing well.”

***

“Taker,” she says. She holds her five month old child in her arms. She barely has enough time to spend with her tiny precious son, what with her loyalty for Victoria (that old witch, he thinks) calling her to duty. His hatred for the old queen doesn’t stop him from ever helping Claudia with her duties, however. He simply cares for the Phantomhive countess too much. “Stop poking his cheek, would you?”

Undertaker pouts at her, crackers in between his lips. “But they’re puffy.”

She laughs softly. Yet again one of those brilliant smiles he sees on her, now gracing her lips more often since she’s been with child. He wants to say how beautiful she looks, how radiant her eyes sparkle when she does. But a knock is at the door.

A low “Claudia” sounds from behind the now open door, and her face softens in a way it never has for Undertaker.

He bites down his lip, and pokes Vincent’s cheek once more.

***

Both Vincent and Frances are studying French with their tutor at the study when Undertaker peeks in through the door. It’s become a habit that when the young Phantomhive isn’t at the entrance hall to greet him when he arrives, he comes look for him after his meeting with Claudia.

The boy is taller now, goes up higher than his waist when he stands tall. The glow in the young boy’s eyes, and the brilliance of his smile when he sees half of Undertaker’s face pop through the crack of the door is remarkable. Undertaker thinks, perhaps, he could take his last breath with this radiant smile as his last view of the world. Like a final breath of fresh air as he leaves this rotten world.

The young boy chimes in the sweetest voice before Undertaker has time to remind himself he should be guarded against incoming pranks. “Uncle ‘Taker!”

“Hello, little Phantomhive.” He greets with a crooked smile. He steps inside the room, a bucket of flour dumping upon him once he fully opens the door.

***

“You know, they say having a mole under your eye means you’ll live a sad life.”

“Well, if I have you, it wouldn’t be so sad, would it?”

***

The first night Undertaker held him close, Vincent was fifteen. The young Phantomhive wanted to be comforted, having just lost his mother. He has to be strong, he knows. He cannot show weakness for he has a reputation to uphold. But he allows himself one night, the young boy pleads, trusting Undertaker enough to take it.

Their sex wasn’t passionate. Neither was it bitter. It was raw frustration, clawing nails, vexed hip thrusts, and mechanic kissing.

At the end of it, the young Phantomhive, to be named the new earl that coming weekend, cried in his arms, wetting Undertaker’s bare chest with snot and tears. The reaper realizes then that this actually tastes sweet.

He kisses the boy’s forehead, and comforts him with gentle strokes of his short hair.

“It’s going to be okay. I’ll be with you, Vincent.”

***

Their love making is always sweet. The way Undertaker wraps him with his hair. The way Vincent traces his scars throughout his body with long, slender fingers. The way their parts fit together, snug, comfortable, perfect.

They never dare say how they feel for each other, each hoping they get them across through their actions instead.

***

“I’ll miss you every day.”

“As I you. Hihi. Don’t have too much fun with your fellow students.”

“My whole stay will be a bore, I tell you.” He laughs, eyes twinkling with glee. It warms Undertaker’s chest. “I’ll miss you, Taker.”

***

They say the smell of death is unerasable. No matter how much a death reaper tried to remove it, the smell lingers on forever.

Why is it then, after years of spending every day together, of smelling death on Vincent because of how frequent they were around each other, now it’s simply… gone?

How short a time does Vincent need to fall out of lov–

No. Undertaker doesn’t dare finish the thought.

***

“Wipe that grin off your face.”

“Why? Aren’t you happy to see me, too?” Undertaker grins wide as he laughs in that style unique to him. “It has been a very long while, Earl.”

Vincent squirms in his chair (an empty casket), and holds the beaker in his hands tighter. Tanaka stands behind him. He looks away. “Yes, it has.”

After the young Phantomhive returned from his trip from Weston College, things hadn’t been the same around the two of them. They could still kiss, have sex, hold each other as close as they used to, but it never had been as sweet as before.

They both knew why.

The heaviness in the air weighed upon Undertaker so much that he decided to move out of the Phantomhive estate. It was difficult to decide so. The estate became his home since Claudia’s departure, upon Vincent’s invitation. He realized, then, it was hard to get attached to something that had become so familiar–Vincent and the estate alike.

Since his departure from the estate, he’d found a nice, cozy, abandoned store, which he now uses to run his undertaking business. He’d been feeling much better, his business going great (as great as it could, at least), until now, that is.

“Is something the matter, Earl?” He asks as he chews on dog biscuits from behind his counter (another empty casket). He wonders if the other remembers he’s the very reason Undertaker ever got addicted to these biscuits.

Vincent takes a moment, simply breathes as he tries not to look past long silver strands and into yellow green eyes. “Why don’t you call me by my name anymore?”

It sends a pang right at Undertaker’s chest. How dare he ask as if he doesn’t know the reason?

No matter how he wants to lash out, however, the want to say his name–Vincent, Vincent, Vincent–is so powerful in Undertaker’s chest, it overthrows any sort of anger. Right as he is about to say it, as an almost sob (or a shameless plea), to test and renew every syllable on his lips, on his tongue, a bitterness seeps from behind his mouth. He finds he cannot summon the strength to call him by that name she gave him, not anymore.

He frowns for a fragment of a moment. He hadn’t even had the chance to utter the first letter.

“That’s simply the way things are, Earl.” He props his chin on top of laced fingers, and long fingernails painted black. He hides his sorrowful eyes behind silver strands of hair. “So? What can I do for you today?”

***

Vincent found a new love, this time a woman. He broke both Undertaker’s and Diedrich’s hearts this time, as if without a care.

She bore him a child, and Undertaker knew that even if it were possible for him to love this child more than he loved Vincent, he would force himself not to.

Vincent will always be his number one.

***

He isn’t sure how it happened, but it did.

Vincent invited him to stay over, for good time’s sake, he says, and to see his beloved son, Ciel. The child looked so pure, so fragile, Undertaker didn’t know how to properly handle him. He was used to handling a boisterous kid, who pulls pranks on him every moment he left unguarded, not… not a dainty little princess.

“Ciel,” Vincent calls him, in a voice as sweet as a sugar-coated apple. The child clings onto him like glue. “This is your Uncle Undertaker.”

Ciel doesn’t attempt to utter the name. He hides behind his father, instead, shrinking when Undertaker laughs the way he does. The once reaper gloats, happy Vincent doesn’t want to pass down the nickname he’d given him.

When Ciel had been sent off to bed, lying beside his mother until she lulls him to sleep, Undertaker and Vincent spend time at the parlor.

“It’s amazing how you still haven’t changed all these years,” Vincent mutters, slightly slurred from the amount of scotch he’d drunk.

“And you–” Undertaker pauses. He doesn’t quite know what to say. He tries to look into deep, brown eyes, tries to look for the spark he once always saw there. He sees it, but he blames the alcohol. “You're… still you.” He lies, simply because he doesn’t know what else to say.

“Of course, I am.” Vincent laughs, chipper yet calm. He leans on his couch, crosses one knee over the other, and props his chin on his hand, elbow on the armrest. “Did you miss me?”

Undertaker inhales sharply, then exhales deep. A question mark must have popped above his head, utterly confused by the question.

Why is he asking this now, of all times?

“It’s been a long time since you last pranked me, Earl. I’m not falling for one of your games.”

“Oh, but it’s not.” The earl smiles. The way Claudia once used to when she’s trying to hide something, but still trying to seem confident.

Undertaker bites down the habit to ask what was wrong.

“Taker,” his sultry voice echoes through the room. Undertaker hears the firewood cracking, and the sound of his own heart beating faster. How long has it been since he was last called that? “Tanaka isn’t here.”

The once reaper gulps, his heart racing faster as his once lover approaches him. His smile is confident, but behind silver bangs, his yellow green eyes were afraid.

If he falls again, surely the fall will be much more painful than the last. Surely, the earl had ulterior motives for approaching him in this manner. What could they be? What would be the point in this?

When Vincent kisses him, rolls his tongue against his as he pulls him closer, traces his scars through his clothes from memory alone, Undertaker simply melts.

The pain of the fall will be worth it.

***

Rachel knew of their escapades, plural for they’d done it more than once.

She paid Undertaker no heed, in a sense, turning a blind eye whenever he arrived to 'visit’.

Despite her angelic features, she sure hosted a jealous demon within.

***

One time Tanaka caught them, the two of hem being foolish enough to do it by the garden fountain. He looked at Vincent with great disappointment. The butler apologized to Vincent immediately after, of course, for a butler never lets his feelings be a hindrance to his service for his master.

Undertaker feared if this meant their affair would stop. But they didn’t.

Oh, how his heart soared.

***

He should have known.

Nothing is permanent.

Nothing good can ever last forever.

His heart fell again. Just as he thought, much harder than the last.

***

When Vincent dies, he lays low. Once he’s set a beautiful burial for him, right next to his demonic angel wife, Undertaker moves to a different cozy, abandoned store to run his undertaking business.

He knows he would cry at night, inside his customized casket, if he still had the tears to shed.

***

When Ciel asks him for favors, he asks for a price–which he never did for Claudia nor Vincent. For them, the price of his services was their friendship and affection. A price paid for only a temporary amount of time, but it was enough–Undertaker convinces himself.

It was more than enough.

When Ciel asks him for favors, he asks for a price. This is to widen the gap between him and the Earl of Phantomhive.

Don’t let a Phantomhive in too close, he reminds himself. They will own your heart, make it beat with as much energy as a young bird so eager to learn how to fly, and make you crash hard as if falling from the highest peak of the earth. There is simply no merit in it.

But continue to help them, he wills himself.

It would make Claudia happy.

It would make Vincent happy.

***

He finally finds a way to create Bizarre Dolls, with the aid of enough idiotic humans to help him see this through.

He knows it would make neither Claudia nor Vincent proud, but he pushes on.

He’s finally doing something for himself. He won’t let another Phantomhive stop him from doing as such.

***

“This beautifully stitched skin as white as wax, just like when they were alive. Their mouths that cannot clamour noisily, nor tell lies any longer. Aren’t they all far more beautiful than when they were alive?”

These mouths that cannot tell lies any longer.

But what is the point in that?

Vincent still wouldn’t be able to say the words Undertaker so wanted to hear.

***

“Hello, Earl. You’re as tiny as ever. But I’m pleased to see you’re doing well.” He says, as he twirls his hat on his left hand. He looks at the young Earl, so much younger than his father when he was named an earl. The child stands tall behind his butler despite looking so fragile.

Though they’re a different color, he has his father’s eyes, the once reaper remembers.

“Did you enjoy your first experience with group life?”  
/I know your father did./

/Oh no./ Undertaker begins to think, when he catches that bitter pang in his chest he hadn’t felt in the longest time. (It’s finally been three years past his death, and even longer since he left Undertaker’s side? Why must this still hurt?)

This is much harder than he thought it would be.

When the prefects finish their story, and the Earl of Phantomhive reacts, Undertaker simply laughs, cackles so hard it hurts his stomach.

“Humans are really so extremely tragic, so extremely funny, and so extremely interesting.” He cackles, and there’s lightning in his yellow green eyes. It’s like he’s seeing his own cinematic record, the pain his endured, the loss he’s suffered through. How interesting it is that humans–regardless that they’re dead–could affect a death god as so.

The demon says he agrees, but Undertaker thinks he doesn’t. The demon couldn’t possibly see this entertainment in the same light as him.

This entertainment that stings so badly he could die right then and there.

***

He has to wait a long time before his life truly ends, just as he has wanted to all these years.

His life ends in the hands of Ciel Phantomhive, perfectly ironic, but it makes sense. His curtains close off with a boisterous laugh that had last blared in his lungs back when Vincent was still alive. His sight blurs off to darkness.

When he opens his eyes, Vincent is there in front of him. No wedding ring. Twinkling brown eyes focused on him, and him alone.

“Someone’s happy to see me.”

“Of course, I am. I always have been.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Hey, I’m with you, okay? Always.  
> WARNING: Explicit. Mentions of death.

Since he’d quit being a Shinigami, he no longer has in his possession the list of upcoming deaths. What he keeps from his decades of reaping souls, apart from his trusted Death Scythe, is the capability to sense a person’s death with just the touch of their skin.

He never would have thought he’d sense death on Vincent’s smooth skin when he’s merely 34 years old.

***

“You’ve grown your nails.” Vincent starts, sipping on his tea. They’re in the greenhouse, admiring the plants brimming with life during tea time. The warmth of Spring mixes with aftermaths of Winter in the air.

Undertaker munches on dog biscuits, crumbles falling to his lap. “Yes, I have.”

The earl pouts at him from across the table, setting down his tea. “I like them shorter.”

“Hmmm, but don’t you like it when I poke your cheek like his?” Undertaker laughs that laugh unique to him as he pokes Vincent’s cheek with a nail. The Phantomhive squints his eyes, steam puffing out of his ears. A frown weighs on his lips.

“As much as I don’t mind you enjoying what you’ve done to me since I was a baby, I like that your touches hurt less when you’re not scratching me with your nails.”

“Oh?” Undertaker laughs once more. The unique sound making Vincent’s heart flutter, though he doesn’t show it. “You don’t like it when I scratch you, hmm?”

Vincent catches the seductive glint in the other man’s eye, yellow-green peeking through a parting of silver hair. “Maybe. Maybe not.” He smiles, returning the sensual gaze with his own. He sips his tea once more.

Tanaka comes into the greenhouse that moment, bowing near the entrance before making his way towards his master. He bows once more as he announces, “Master Vincent, your visitor, Earl Grey, has arrived and is waiting for you at the parlor.”

“Ahh, thank you, Mr. Tanaka.” The earl taps the corners of his mouth clean with a napkin, then stands up. “I must be on my way, then, Taker.”

Vincent stands up and approaches the silver-haired man, who raises clothed arms to welcome him in an embrace. They wrap arms around each other for a moment, then Vincent leans downward to kiss the other man on the lips. “You’ll stay the night, yes?”

Undertaker forces a smile, hoping Vincent doesn’t notice the effort in it. “If it’s what you wish.”

The once reaper watches Vincent exit the greenhouse, trying not to focus on the taste of death the earl left on his lips.

***

The summer winds blow through the air, and every day keeps getting hotter and hotter. The nights, however, feel much cooler than the mornings. Vincent and Undertaker both take delight in how they need not wear clothes as they lie beside each other in bed during such evenings. No need to cover their bodies under blankets either, the chilly night air welcome to their heated skin.

“Why must summer be sweltering hot?” Vincent pants, having just come against Undertaker’s stomach. He sits on top of the other man’s thighs, Undertaker’s now softened erection pulled out of his ass. The once reaper’s seed slowly drips from the widened hole.

“Things are as they are, because that’s how they must be, Earl.” Undertaker laughs, looking at the earl through silver bangs. He secretly enjoys the fluid dripping unto his thighs, which would perhaps make his arousal stand up once more that night.

“There you go again.” Vincent frowns at the term he’s been called. He runs his hands through Undertaker’s hair to pull long, silver strands off the other’s face. One hand keeps the bangs in place above Undertaker’s head, while the other traces the scar that runs horizontal from the other’s cheek. “I have one name. You know that, Taker.”

Undertaker smiles, small as the earl’s fingers brush over the scar on his neck. He says with as much passion and sincerity as he could muster, and it comes out almost overflowing with all his love, “Vincent.”

The Phantomhive smiles, eyes twinkling brightness. “Thank you.”

They lean towards each other, their lips meeting to plant a kiss, two kisses, another, and then another. Their arms wrap around each other, Undertaker’s around the other’s waist, Vincent’s around the other’s neck, pulling each other closer, a great common need to lessen the space between them. Their mouths open with the same timing, tongues languidly pushing forth to meet with wet muscle. They both moan into each other’s hot caverns, silent admittances of their love for each other sealed into each roll of their tongues.

Undertaker’s hand is rubbing their growing erections together now, nails retracted, his other hand pulling Vincent’s hips closer so he could easily pump their heated flesh. The master of the house starts bucking his hips against his hand and the once reaper’s own arousal.

“Harder,” The earl groans into the other’s mouth. He’s pulling at the other’s long hair, twisting his arms around them as if trying to trap himself between the strands.

Undertaker slowly guides the earl to lie on his back, pushes his erection against the other’s roughly. Vincent bucks his hips upward to increase the friction between their heated muscles. The bed shakes with the ferocity of their movements, squeaking as if it’s soon to give up to the force of their passion.

“In me…” The earl begs as he moans into Undertaker’s ear. His arms are still around the once reaper’s neck, pulling him close. “Put it in me one more time, Taker.”

Undertaker obliges, wanting nothing else, but to please this man, the source of both the warmth and ache in his heart. He pushes inside Vincent easily, the tightness still adjusted to his girth from when he entered moments before. The initial push still tastes most exquisite, the moment Vincent’s warmth welcomes his aching need. There are no words to describe how it feels, knowing the pain of taking this experience for granted. He’d spent years without this feeling, got it back, and he knows in the back of his mind he’s about to lose it again soon. 

“Vincent,” he pleads, his voice almost croaking. All throughout their love-making he keeps tasting death on his tongue, feels death on his fingers. He wonders if there’s any way he can remove this smell, this taste from the other man, but he knows if there’s anything that cannot be delayed or controlled, it is death.

“Vincent,” he keeps moaning instead. Each a prayer to extend the man’s life for even just one more second.

“Taker,” Vincent replies with as much passion as the silver-haired utters his name. His moans are loud, his nails are scratching at long hair and scarred back, his throat growing itchy at the roughness of his wails.

Undertaker’s thrusts start getting more violent, his hands gripping the earl’s waist so he could shove himself more powerfully into his beloved human. Vincent is reduced to pleasured mewls and gratified screams, his moans getting more frequent to the beat of the once reaper’s thrusts.

When their high comes upon them, they each moan low, wrapping arms tightly around each other as if not wanting to let the other go.

***  
Undertaker pulls out of Vincent with a grunt, who kisses across his cheek, trailing the scar on it.

“That felt good.” The Phantomhive pants, a smile on his face. His chest rises and falls with heavy breath, and Undertaker cannot imagine how this movement could simply stop one day.

“Vincent,” he starts. This probably isn’t the time, but he feels the need to say it soon. “I must tell you something.”

Undertaker knows his eyes are forlorn, and he wants to hide them underneath his bangs. Vincent doesn’t let him, brushing away silver strands.

“What’s wrong?” The earl asks, his voice colored with worry.

“You–” Undertaker tries, tries so hard to voice it out. /You’re going to die soon./

When the moments pass and Undertaker still cannot find the voice to say what he thinks he needs to, Vincent kisses the lid of each of his eyes. “It’s okay. Take your time.” Vincent cups the once reaper’s face in between his hands. “I will be with you, alright? Always.“ The earl smiles, not knowing how his words promise nothing. “You can tell me when you are more ready.”

Undertaker stares into brown eyes that make him feel like he once did for Claudia, except stronger, fuller, bolder. He wants to explode, wants to trade his life for Vincent’s. Give Vincent the immortality, please. He dares not spend another second without this man in his presence.

Unable to voice any of his wishes, Undertaker simply whispers. "Please. Take care of your soul. Promise me.”

Vincent laughs against the other’s frowning lips, then kisses. “Of course, I will.”

Undertaker returns the kiss that tastes like death. He ponders if Vincent would ever understand how precious his soul is.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A random update appears. Well, I figured it's time (after more than a year, wow) for me to get this thing updated with the chapters over at Tumblr, because I also need it for my own reference. LOL;;
> 
> Prompt: How do you really feel about me?  
> WARNING: An obsession to the point of madness.  
> Note: This was initially written as a reaction to Kuroshitsuji Chapter 105.

“How do you really feel about me?” Vincent asks from Undertaker’s right, seated upon his red velvet chair. The once reaper sits beside him, on the armrest of the Earl’s chair, one arm over the backrest, a smile on his face to mask the torrent of emotions inside.

Undertaker is appalled by the question, tints of insult like piercing needles in his chest. How does this man not see what lengths he would go to–pull out his heart, kill himself once more, become anything–/anything/–if it would guarantee his happiness? (Or if it would prolong his life.)

The ex-reaper laughs in the only way he knows how. “Earl, I would do anything for you.”

These words. They’re practically meaningless. They pale in contrast to how he would risk /everything/–every fibre of his body, every ounce of his power, every fraction of his existence–for one Vincent Phantomhive. They cannot encapsulate how far he would go. These words mean nothing against the quick beating of his heart, the tears he would shed, the passion in his fingertips. He loves Vincent. So much so that it already breaks him apart knowing he’ll lose him soon.

“You did it again.” Vincent looks up at him, right cheek pressed against his right hand, resting on the other armrest.

“Force of habit.” Undertaker laughs once more. He knows the other’s pertaining to his calling him ‘Earl’, but he cannot help it. It hurts to say his name now. It pains him that he knows one day–although he doesn’t know when–he’ll mutter this name, and there will be no man to turn towards him with a smile on his face, only the dust of tender memories escaping his lips.

Tanaka enters the room with two glasses and a bottle of red wine. The two men on a single chair watch the butler come closer to set the tray on a table before them. He pours wine unto the glasses, sets them on a smaller tray, and offers it towards them, waiting for each to take a glass.

“Did you tell my mother that, too?” Vincent takes one glass in his fingers, sips and then twirls wine. Undertaker smiles at Tanaka as he takes a glass, too, frowning deep inside. “Did you tell her you’d do anything for her, too?”

“I did.” Thoughts of Claudia still bring a soft smile to his face. He himself is relieved to realize such. Vincent dismisses Tanaka with a wave of a hand. “What of it?”

“Nothing.”

“Are you jealous, little Phantomhive?” Undertaker pokes at the other’s cheek with the same hand holding wine. He’s thankful for the lighter mood, at least.

“I am not!” Vincent huffs, biting the finger that’s just poked him.

“My, my, the Earl is still in such good spirits.”

“Don’t–” Vincent grabs unto his arm. “Stop calling me that.”

Undertaker looks into brown eyes, almost seeing how they hollow out, lifeless. He immediately takes a sipful of wine to burn the bitterness of such a sight in his mouth. It does nothing to alleviate the pain.

Vincent takes that moment to stand up and kiss him, wine in his mouth as well, red liquid dripping between their lips, dirtying their shirts.

Even when the earl touches him above long sleeves, even with the taste of wine in both their tongues as they kiss passionately, much to Undertaker’s dismay, Vincent tastes like death.

Tears start to well up in Undertaker’s eyes. How much longer will he have with this man? How many more days must he suffer thinking he’ll wake up the next morning with news of this man’s death? How painful will the days be once this man is gone?

With another kiss on Vincent’s wilting lips, and hands slowly removing clothing off, Undertaker promises. He will exhaust himself to keep Vincent alive.

***

For as much as Undertaker could sense death on Vincent’s fingertips, tongue, and neck, he never would have guessed he’d die, burning to ashes, leaving nothing for Undertaker to keep, but dust.

Just as Undertaker thought.

***

In his hands now, he holds the ashes of what they deem to be Vincent. He sets him gently into the pot that will house the man from now on, the space he’d occupied in Undertaker’s heart now vacated. He lets the dust fall from his fingers, handling Vincent with the same gentleness he once did when the man was still alive.

Undertaker doesn’t cry.  
He’s already dried himself of the tears when he’d come running to the scene of crime to find a mansion on fire, precious Vincent burning within.

He couldn’t save Claudia.  
He couldn’t save Vincent.  
He couldn’t save anyone that mattered.

***

He keeps around his waist locks of hair of people important to him. Claudia, the woman he loved, at the center of the chain. The one with the ribbon that loops infinitely.

On his ring, he keeps the ashes of the man he loves. To this day. Until forever. Even beyond.

Sometimes he hears Vincent’s voice from it.

“How do you really feel about me?”

Undertaker replies with a tender kiss, or a gentle slide of a finger.

“I love you a lot, Vincent. I’ll show you now. I’ll go to any lengths for you.”

***

He dares not meet this man, yet his feet have led him here.

For a time, this man was a source of bitterness, of abandonment and the fleeting pangs of adolescent love.

Undertaker prides himself that after going through him, through Diedrich, and through Rachel, Vincent still chose him in the end.

So why?  
Why does he find himself standing in front of Diedrich now? Looking into a frame where Vincent–a record of his deceit, his treachery, his liaison behind his back, captured forever?

“I’m sure the Earl would laugh at you if he saw you now.” Undertaker says nonchalantly, even though he’s trying to fight the tears back. Why must the tears come back now? He thought he’d already dried himself of all this years ago. “In that respect, I guess I’m just glad he died.”

I’m glad he died away from /you/. Away from anyone. Even if it means he’s away from Undertaker now, too. At least, no one can lay claim on him anymore. Vincent. That beautiful, free spirit. The child who plays pranks on him. The teenager that laid claim on his tattered heart. The man he loves, now and forevermore.

Undertaker laments, even if three years had passed since he’d been dried of tears. The wound remains fresh in his chest, the vacant space Vincent once occupied still hollow.

How cruel must the universe be to have Vincent be this way, disappearing into ashes, with only photographs to prove his existence?

“But the Earl of Phantomhive is still with us, after all…” He claims.

It’s true.

No one else understand that now, but it’s true.

Others will say he’s mad. More will say he’s lost his mind.

But they don’t know.

They don’t know what lengths he’d go to for the sake of one Vincent Phantomhive.

***

“How do you really feel about me?”

“So much love, the rest of the world could rot.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Imagine person A bandaging up Person B’s arm.  
> WARNING: blood. sexual themes with underage.

His skin is full of scars, and they’re beautiful.

He’s beautiful.

There is not one person or object on this earth that could possess an infinite beauty like Uncle Taker’s.

And in that sense, Vincent thinks, he doesn’t deserve him.

***

His first concrete memory of Uncle Taker is of his tall, wide back as he walks out the Phantomhive entrance. A black, flowing mass with long, silver hair trailing behind, contrasted against the warm light of the mid-afternoon sun beyond the entrance.

It was like a piece of the night sky had fallen down along with a thread of the moon’s silver lining. The black sky had fallen and landed here, in their entrance hall, in broad daylight.

This beguiling image of elegance gripped Vincent’s young heart from that day onwards.

***

Uncle Taker’s bangs weren’t always long.

Vincent remembers, as a kid, he could look into yellow-green eyes–silver strands set to the side above silver eyebrows. He’d stare whenever he asked to be carried by his uncle. He would look up to see yellow-green from where he sat upon his uncle’s lap, or from where he’s kept up in his uncle’s arms. Uncle Taker never seemed to mind him staring, although his uncle did mind being asked to carry him (or Frances) all the time.

Uncle Taker often complained to his mother, “Claudia, can I put him down now?”

To which Vincent would reply, in his teeny tiny voice, “No.” and grip tiny arms around the man’s neck tighter.

His mother, ever the beloved ally, would promptly reply, “You heard him, ‘Taker.” Then she’d sip on her tea, a gentle smile placed at the tip of her cup.

Uncle Taker would sigh heavily afterward, would sit Vincent upon his other lap in defeat, then continue conversing with his mother.

Relishing in his success, Vincent would proceed to stare into yellow-green eyes as he sat on his uncle’s lap. Lucky privileges of being a kid, he thinks now, when he remembers such scenes in hindsight. Back then, he would watch Uncle Taker eating one biscuit after another, laughing when he says a joke, pouting when Claudia points out certain things.

His eyes never left her.

***

The more Vincent grew older, the more mischievous his pranks became.

Tea cookies replaced with dog biscuits. Flour traps upon doors. Salt in lemonade instead of sugar. Sticky jam on his seat (for that, Vincent had to be careful his mother didn’t sit on the wrong chair). Setting traps in hallways, at the entrance, across rooms.

His Uncle Taker came for a visit frequent enough that his pranks would repeat, yet his uncle falls for each one without fail.

Vincent knows his Uncle Taker isn’t stupid enough to fall for his traps every time, which is why the young boy feels elated  when Uncle Taker “falls” for his traps. It means his uncle /chooses/ to fall for his traps. The young Phantomhive takes it as a sign that the man doesn’t find him as a nuisance, nor does he mind the young boy’s vying for his attention.

His young, though incredibly perceptive mind tries not to think his uncle lets him be simply because he’s his mother’s child.

For as much as Vincent has stared into his uncle’s bewitching yellow-green eyes, he’s noticed that Uncle Taker stares at his mother quite… differently. He certainly doesn’t gaze at anything else with the same intensity. Vincent can’t find the perfect words to describe it. It’s like yellow-green starts to sparkle whenever his uncle looks at his mother. His eyes twinkle with more life when his eyes meet with hers.

Vincent thinks his uncle’s eyes are prettiest when that sparkle is there.

***

On his thirteenth birthday, when Uncle Taker gives him a box of cookies as a present, Vincent realizes, with a pang to his chest: It hurts to be treated like a kid.

He finally becomes aware that the one thing he wanted most–a wish that ignites with flares in his chest–was for Uncle Taker to look at him the way he does at his mother.

***

“Master Vincent,” Tanaka wakes him from slumber. Vincent slowly opens his eyes, eyelids dragging back down every time he tried to force them open. He looks up at the intricate ceiling of his mother’s office once he’s managed to fully open his eyes. He’d fallen asleep on the sofa there, supposedly a book over his head, while skipping private lessons.

“Mr. Tanaka?” He looks to his right. The old butler bows to him, a hand to his chest. Vincent’s book is in his other hand at his side.

“Master Vincent, the countess wanted you to–”

“Vincent, get your feet off that couch.” His mother interrupts. He can hear her authoritative voice from somewhere over his head. Perhaps she sits by the window, at the table where she loves having tea. “What have I told you about lounging around the house?”

Vincent laughs as he sits up. “That I shouldn’t?” He hears his mother continue to reprimand him, words entering one ear and going out the other. He turns around to look at her, and then–

His jaw drops.

Across his mother sat Uncle Taker, his upper body clad in nothing but bandages. Vincent’s thirteen year old heart beat with an uneven rhythm, going faster the longer he stared at his uncle. He’d never seen what’s underneath black robes before, though he’d always, always wondered how the man’s body looked. (It was an innocent curiosity that led to a perverse fascination.)

Vincent gawks as a maid wraps more bandage along his uncle’s right arm. His mind does not yet register why he needs bandaging.

The young Phantomhive snaps back to his senses when Tanaka clears his throat. “My apologies, Master Vincent, for disturbing your sleep. The countess thought the smell of blood might make you uncomfortable as you slept, so if you would please relocate–”

“Blood?” He sniffs the air. Only then does he notice, eyes darting back to bandages. He realizes they’re stained red. Uncle Taker is bleeding. “Uncle Taker!” He screams coarsely as he approaches his mother and uncle, falling on his knees at the frantic speed he pushes himself off the couch.

“Oh, please. Don’t be so dramatic, Vincent.” His mother laughs softly, sipping her tea. How /could/ she sip tea when her friend is bleeding in front of her?

Vincent kneels down beside the maid that finishes bandaging the man’s right arm. Once the maid has stood up, he walks on his knees to place himself where she knelt. He grabs hold of his Uncle Taker’s right hand. Only then does Uncle Taker look towards him. “Hello there, Little Phantomhive.”

The thirteen year old tightens his grip on the other’s hand. He bites his tongue. In his chest is a mix of worry and anger. He’s not a little kid anymore, damn it.

“What happened to you, Uncle Taker?”

“Oh, it’s no biggie.” Uncle Taker smiles, wide, like a cat’s smile, and laughs in his usual strange manner. It makes Vincent’s heart leap. “I fell into a rose bush.”

His mother scoffs, a forlorn smile on her face. “Some rose bush, that is.”

“Nothing to worry about, Little Phantomhive. You carry on. Hihi. Go on and play some hide and seek with Frances.” His uncle says, ripping his hand away then waving it at the young boy as if shooing him away.

Vincent knows his uncle doesn’t mean anything by the action, but boy, did that make his chest ache.

Why keep treating him like a kid? Why shoo him away? Why call Frances by name, but not him?

With brows knitted, Vincent excuses himself and retreats to his room.

He’s bloody /Vincent/ Phantomhive, damn it. Won’t he ever call him by name?

***

Vincent doesn’t stop his pranks until he turns fourteen.

While he was still thirteen, he tried to make his Uncle more annoyed with every prank. But each was dismissed the same way–by his uncle guilelessly “falling” for his traps.

This wasn’t how he wanted things to proceed.

And so, he stops his pranks. They were not enough to hold his uncle’s attention.

***

“Are you going through a rebellious age?” His uncle asks one time when he greets him at the entrance hall. It has been a few months since he last played a prank on him. “Or have you simply run out of tricks?”

“Oh, I still have tricks, mind you.” A lie. His voice cracks, and his damned uncle quickly laughs at the terrible jump in his voice’s pitch. Vincent flushes red. “The next one’s gonna be big.” He bluffs.

“Oh?” His uncle says, surprised, though he doesn’t know if his eyes widened in shock. Vincent can’t see his eyes anymore. The older man’s hair has grown long enough to hide his eyes all the time. It hurts not to see yellow-green, but perhaps this is for the better. Vincent is sure it would hurt far worse to see yellow-green sparkling for his mother’s eyes. “I look forward to it.”

Vincent simply smiles, with an attempt at aloofness he thinks an adult should have. “Please do.”

***

“Uncle Taker,” he starts.

He’d never been alone with Uncle Taker. To think the man would ever agree to drink wine with him, a boy four years too young to legally drink this beverage. At a dark room, at that, illuminated only by the moonlight coming in from the window. Perhaps his uncle simply doesn’t mind, or perhaps he thinks Vincent is mature enough to drink wine with such sophistication.

It’s been far too long since Vincent had seen silver fringe pushed back for him to see yellow-green. He looks into those yellow-green eyes now, as they shine underneath the moon they stare up at. Vincent whispers through the darkness. “Could you… teach me?”

“Teach you what?”

“How to…” He gulps. Is he really going to ask this? “How to touch myself?”

Yellow-green darts to brown, piercing Vincent with a ferocious electricity that melts him to the core. Vincent could have dissolved right then and there, if his uncle hadn’t grabbed his arm tightly to keep him upright. Sharp black nails pierce his skin.

“Is this your 'next big trick’, Little Phantomhive?” Uncle Taker smiles, though his voice seethes with fierce venom. With the moonlight still reflected on them, his uncle’s yellow-green eyes simply paralyze Vincent, both in how beautiful they are, and how hurtful it is to notice that there is no trace of glee in them. Only irritation.

/Oh no./ Vincent feels tears well up in his eyes. /He’s gonna hate me./

“It’s not quite funny, but I’ll let this one slip since I’ve been so entertained by your past pranks.”

Uncle Taker throws him towards the wall, then starts walking towards the door.

“Don’t ask that from me ever again.” The man says before he’s out the door.

Vincent feels like his heart had been ripped out and torn to pieces of every word.

***

His mother has been buried. Uncle Taker laid her in the most perfect casket, dressed her in clothes that suited her best, and erected a tombstone that depicted her beautiful soul.

He treated her so precious, even in the afterlife, that it continuously tore at Vincent’s chest.

Vincent and Undertaker were the last ones standing before her grave.

“You shouldn’t hold so much grief, my boy.” His uncle starts.

Vincent looks at him briefly, then back down at his mother’s grave. “I don’t.”

“Oh?” The Undertaker laughs. “If you say so.”

Moments pass between them. The sun is low over the horizon now. They should get going before the sky completely turns dark.

“Uncle Taker.” Vincent grabs hold of his uncle’s sleeve.

“Yes?” The other replies, turning to face Vincent.

The young soon-to-be-earl breathes shakily, trying to calm himself for the question about to escape his lips. He’s asked something along these lines once. It didn’t end well.

“Would you comfort me?” His voice is almost sobbing. He hopes the desperation–for a taste of Undertaker’s body, hidden under the disguise of mourning over his mother’s death–is apparent in his tone. “Please. I beg of you.”

His uncle takes a while to answer. But he answers yes, and it’s all that really mattered.

***

Vincent realizes how wicked his heart really is when, upon Undertaker finally agreeing to bed him upon his mother’s death, he thought, 'If that’s what it takes for him to bed me, maybe she should’ve died sooner.’

He’s horrible, he knows.

He knows.

***

There’s nothing quite like the exhilaration of finally owning the one you love.

His love has been unanswered for quite most of his life, yet now he gets to spend every night in his beloved’s scarred arms–sweetly sweaty, driven to madness, layers upon layers of wicked debauchery.

It’s like all his dreams–both innocent and perverse–over all these years had finally come true.

Vincent vows, he won’t ever let his Undertaker go.

***

The thing is, the habit of pulling tricks on Undertaker never quite went away.

When he’d come back from Weston College, he brought his new German hound back with him. He stared at Diedrich different, pretending to 'have fallen in love with someone new’.

Of course, this wasn’t the actual case.

Vincent loved Undertaker so much, every second he’d spent away at Weston had felt like a sword engorged to his heart. He immediately wanted to reunite with him, albeit after a prank, for old time’s sake.

He should have been wise enough to know, however, that Undertaker wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between truth and trick.

The moment he saw Undertaker wobble upon the chair once he laid his yellow-green eyes on Vincent and Diedrich, Vincent immediately regretted his actions.

However, the pieces have been set. There was no turning back.

The next few months–or years–will be causing both him and Undertaker various heartache.

***

He had regretted his actions, sure. Yet there’s also this thrill that rises up his spine whenever he sees Undertaker suffer.

The way those yellow-green eyes glimmer with a forlorn radiance as he watches Diedrich and him act sweetly over tea.

It gives Vincent the satisfaction that the man loved him so much, it hurt Undertaker to see him with another man.

Vincent realizes once again that, true, he’s wicked and rotten to the core. He’s sorry to Undertaker for ever doing this to him, but–

It feels absolutely wonderful to know Undertaker loved him enough to let him go. Even though Vincent had no intention of ever leaving.

***

Undertaker left.

This wasn’t part of Vincent’s plans.

Undertaker had always, always, always been by his side. By his mother’s side. His presence had been so permanent, and yet– There’s not a trace of it left.

How could he leave?

How could he…

***

Vincent finally beds Diedrich when Undertaker has left, only because the loneliness ate him up. Undertaker’s departure from the Phantomhive estate left a vast fissure in his chest, a gaping hole of emptiness. He needed to have it filled.

He’d never truly meant to go all the way with his dear friend, meant his tricks to stay at innocent touches and testing kisses. But here they are now, lying naked in bed, panting at sensual, private touches.

This hurts because all Vincent could think of was Undertaker, even though Diedrich so painfully, obviously wanted Vincent to look his way. To see him for him.

It hurts because Diedrich is a mirror of what Vincent was for Undertaker, back when the man’s yellow-green eyes were reserved for his mother. It was an awful reminder of what he used to be. Of perhaps what he is once more now.

When Diedrich pushed into him that night, Vincent gripped his friend’s muscular arms, tracing Undertaker’s scars on them with a finger by memory. Though he did this to comfort himself, Vincent only ended up feeling more hollow.

***

Meeting Rachel was nice. A nice distraction, that is. She distracted him from an obligation to not hurt a friend. She veered his attention away from the ever lingering pain of Undertaker leaving him. It was easy to just say yes to her. A useful pawn.

She’s sweet. She’s kind. She's… nice, though that’s all she ever will be.

He can pretend like she isn’t, though. He can wear a mask and marry her. For good status in polite society, for his duty towards Her majesty, for whoever else’s sake.

He’d lost sight of himself. Of his goals, and his ambitions. The gaping hole in his chest kept eating him up.

It’s thanks to Tanaka he could find himself again.

Tanaka found where Undertaker resides currently. Vincent immediately set a carriage prepared to depart for his shop.

***

They reunited, after months that seemed like centuries.

Vincent wished it was heartwarming, sweet and romantic, but Undertaker had set up walls he couldn’t encroach. Their reunion was nothing like Vincent wanted.

How many years must he spend again in order to get them back to how they once were?

***

In one of Vincent’s missions for the Queen, he almost lost his life.

He was saved by a man clad in flowing black, whose powerful scythe sliced through Vincent’s opponents with a quickness that triumphs over Tanaka’s sword skills. Over /anyone’s/ skills, he dare claims.

The scythe flowed gracefully with the man’s every movement, seemingly an extension of his elegant body, hitting each and every human with deadshot accuracy to vital points.

As Vincent watched blood spill from his opponents’ bodies, his heart leapt with glee and beat with an irregularity much like his thirteen year old heart, back when he’d first realized he was in love with Undertaker. He sighs, dreamily, when Undertaker is done assassinating the swarms of enemies that came to attack Vincent.

Vincent is about to approach his savior, heart beating wild in his chest, when it immediately drops out of his chest, watching Undertaker collapse to the ground.

***

“You shouldn’t have saved me.” Vincent frowns, wrapping bandages around Undertaker’s right arm. They’re back at the Phantomhive mansion now.

Tanaka had done first aid on Undertaker after he collapsed, attempts to at least stop the bleeding. Vincent had been in too much of a shock to move, the rest of the trip home a haze.

“It’s quite alright, Earl.” Undertaker laughs, in that way that only belongs to him. Vincent’s heart flutters despite the frown on his face. “I can handle this much.”

“If your wounds reopen every time you helped a human using your weapon, you should just quit it.” Vincent slaps the older man’s forehead once he’s tied the bandage tight, sealed. “I don’t want you collapsing on me ever again, you hear?”

“Hmm, but–”

“No, buts. Sheesh.” The earl crosses his arms as he lets Tanaka finish cleansing the other arm, bleeding once more. He mumbles, hoping no one hears. “Getting me all worried.”

Undertaker laughs once more. He cocks his head to one side, a cat grin pulling his lips. “Oh? The Earl was worried about me?”

Vincent looks to Undertaker then, a glare readied to pierce at yellow-green behind silver fringe. But Undertaker had pushed his hair back, so now, Vincent gawks, speechless at the beauty of Undertaker’s eyes.

They’re still there. The same sparkle he used to see when Undertaker stares into his mother’s eyes.

But these sparkles are /his/, Vincent’s. His alone.

Vincent bites down his lip, nervousness in his chest. Does he dare ask? Does he dare take a step towards getting Undertaker back in his life?

“Hey, do you maybe… want to come over this weekend?”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Clearly, you’ve never experienced silk sheets properly, then. + coffin  
> WARNING: explicit

When Vincent nonchalantly agrees to see how it feels to sleep in Undertaker’s custom-made casket, he surely does not expect this turn of events that makes him put his own sanity into question.

This is absolutely absurd. He knows, and Vincent thinks he hasn’t completely lost his mind because his mind processes that this /is/ absurd. Yet, this very fact–doing /this/ despite knowing how gravely absurd it is–proves even more just how much he’s lost his mind, how steadily he’s fallen into madness, how insane he’s become. What a frustrating contrast.

They partake of malicious acts–sweaty, hot and naked, endlessly panting for air–on one of Undertaker’s custom-made caskets.

(/On a flippin’ casket! Bloody hell. Mother, please forgive me from heaven./ The earl thinks.)

Vincent, despite having known the feel of silk on his skin since he was a child, abashedly feels his full erection throb bigger as his back skids against the smooth material he lies upon. He blames it on Undertaker and his sense of aesthetics–on how soft the cushions caress his muscles, how the smooth silk material kisses his skin, how the pleasant fragrance of white lilies laid upon the cushions tranquilize his soul. The combination of all these things makes him lose his mind.

Wasn’t this casket supposed to house the dead? Why is it so damn comfortable?

The groan that escapes his parted lips (because he’s frustrated with this ridiculous situation), heated breath blowing against scarred cheek, shakily turns into a moan as Undertaker traces his hands from where they were–hooked beneath the young one’s knees–and down to where the younger’s thighs meet buttocks. The older slightly spreads butt cheeks open for his arousal to tease between. Undertaker rubs his heated bulk, wet and hot, against Vincent’s soft, ample bottom.

“How are you feeling, Vincent?” Undertaker asks, moving down to laugh against his ear. He pushes and pulls the earl to make his back repeatedly slide against smooth silk. (/Damn it, Taker. That feels damn good./ The earl thinks.) “Doesn’t the casket feel good?”

Vincent feels the other’s tongue lick from his ears, up his jaw and towards his lips. To show his annoyance, the earl pulls at long hair, tanking the other backward before the other could seal their lips in a kiss. “Ow, ow, ow, that hurts.”

“It better.” Vincent huffs, lips pouting.

The older man laughs as he rubs his hurting scalp. “I take it this doesn’t feel good at all, what with that frown on your face? Hmm?”

“I’d rather not admit–” The earl whispers under his breath, eyebrows knitting. When the other recovers from the painful yanking and kisses his neck, the earl is quick to alter his mood, whimpering.

“What’s that you were saying?” The older whispers softly against the other’s neck, lips rubbing against skin.

“N-nothing.”

“Oh, come on.” He laughs once more. The older nuzzles his nose into the earl’s neck then, while he resumes teasing Vincent’s ass. The earl’s breath hitches when he falsely thinks the other is about to enter him. “Silly, young Phantomhive. You’re not being honest with me again.”

“When am I ever not honest with you?”

“I can think of more than one instance.” Undertaker laughs, bitter–though not obviously so. He laughs in that manner unique to him to mask the unpleasant dryness in his mouth. He kisses downward, lips traveling from neck, to collarbone, to chest. The younger’s breathing grows heavier as he moves down, Vincent’s chest pressing against Undertaker’s lips whenever the younger inhales. The reaper lets his lips rest there for a while, enjoying the taste of life on Vincent’s skin. So bold, so fresh, so full of zest, with every heartbeat he senses on his lips.

Vincent traces both of the other’s arms with the tip of his nails, from hands, to elbow to shoulders. He cups both of the older’s cheeks in his hands and guides the other to look at him. He stares into yellow-green eyes, relishes in the electric rhythm that spikes in his blood. Yellow-green fills his chest with heavy feathery cotton. Vincent feels he could explode from this sweetness erupting in his chest, by the mere sight of those eyes. The worst (or is it the best) part was, he wouldn’t mind actually blowing himself up if only to stare into that yellow-green forever.

“It feels good,” he admits after seconds pass, trying to erase the forlorn look the other so painfully tries to hide.

Undertaker’s like this sometimes, Vincent has noticed. Hiding a layer of sadness beneath his jovial facade even though Vincent wants to see it, wants him to share the sadness, the pain, the the sorrow. He’d like to share everything that is Undertaker’s–the sweet, the bitter, the painful. /Everything/.

“It-it feels so smooth.” Vincent continues admitting as Undertaker has gone back to trailing kisses down his torso. His breath hitches time to time as the other nears his throbbing arousal, his hands still tangled in the other’s silver locks. “I’ve known silk all my life, and yet–/ahhh/,” moans spill forth, one after another at Undertaker sliding a finger in and out of his hole. Vincent isn’t sure when the man had reached for oil to lubricate him, but that’s the least of his worries now. Undertaker’s finger filling his tight hole as the other’s hot breath tickles his erection–it all feels faultlessly divine.

“Yet?” Undertaker laughs against Vincent’s heated muscle, kissing it from bottom to top before sucking on the tip once more, summoning lascivious, coarse grunts from the young earl’s throat. His lips come off Vincent’s erection with a pop. “Clearly, you’ve never experienced silk sheets properly, then.”

Vincent is reduced to a wailing mess as Undertaker takes the thick erection in his mouth once more. He sucks only the head, keeps the younger from bucking hips with a solid hand on his hip. He’s got two fingers inside the other’s warm hole now, spreading them to adjust the young one properly.

“T-taker,” the young earl mewls almost breathlessly, voice skipping pitches by the second syllable. His fingers tangle tighter around silver locks, gripping them at the pleasure, edging the other on. His breathing gets more irregular with each suck on his arousal, and he thinks the warmth in his gut is about to spurt forth, but Undertaker takes his erection out of his mouth right at that moment. Vincent tries to find the words to complain, but all that comes out is a whiney, “Ehh?”

“Ah, ah, ah, not yet.” The older laughs. He takes out his fingers from the other’s ass and pushes the other upward to guide him further up the casket. Silk slides against the skin on Vincent’s back, and he violently shudders at the gratifying texture, Undertaker smirking at his success to make his favorite human feel good. He moves down, their chests touching as they kiss fervently. Vincent groans once, displeased, perhaps at how he tastes himself on the other’s tongue, and then he’s back to moaning, letting his tongue be controlled by Undertaker’s.

Before their lips part from the lack of air, Undertaker pushes the tip of his arousal into Vincent’s warm entrance. The Phantomhive’s shoulders vehemently quiver at the intrusion, shaky breaths against Undertaker’s lips as he grips the other’s shoulders. “You okay?”

The earl rapidly nods his head. “Keep going.”

Undertaker plants kisses on his cheeks as he rolls his hips toward Vincent, sheathing more of his erection into the other’s tight warmth. He keeps shoving his hips at a quick pace, although without much force, so as not to break Vincent’s breath.

“More,” the younger pleads, voice meek, laden with the lust he feels rushing in his veins. “Pound harder, Taker.”

Undertaker grins wide, and with his bangs falling unto his face at that moment, he looks silly. Vincent brings his fingers to the man’s forehead, pushes the fringe back just as Undertaker rolls his hips again, harshly this time, making Vincent’s body jolt at the force.

The earl instinctively grabs onto the casket’s edges to find something solid to root himself to. Undertaker had started vigorously slamming his hips unto his ass repeatedly, throbbing, thick warmth deliciously sliding in and out of the earl’s hole in the best way each time. Vincent’s chest heaves as he pants for breath, gripping the edges tighter with every shove towards him. His fingers start to ache at how firmly he grips onto the wooden edge, a stark contrast to silk cloth caressing his palm. Regardless, his fingers further draw tight, pleasure pulsing in the quickened flow of his blood as Undertaker continues to pound into him.

“Undertaker,” he moans, pure and sweet as he reaches for hair on the other man neck. He guides the silky strands to trail down from wide shoulders and unto his heaving chest. He rubs silver hair up and down his torso, tangling them upon his arms when he no longer knows how else to express his intense pleasure.

Undertaker pulls back to watch the other wrap himself in his hair. He chuckles, feeling giddy as he watches the other bring silver hair to his lips, kissing each bundle softly. Undertaker gulps, underestimating how greatly such a small act affects him. He rushes the in and out thrusting of his hips to Vincent’s welcoming tightness, excitement tripled by Vincent’s actions.

As if that wasn’t enough to make Undertaker loose himself, the young earl pulls him down by the hair and kisses his cheek. The younger whispers, when his arms have wrapped around Undertaker’s neck, amidst strewn moans of delight at this new angle he’s being thrust upon. “I love you, Taker.”

Undertaker, in his absolute, chest-brimming delight, simply rubs his lips against the other’s cheek, right where the mole he loves is located. Then he kisses the other’s lips softly, trying not to let tears fall. “And I you, Vincent.”

They stare into each other’s eyes for a good moment, a moment that seemed to last for eternities, like they had gone to the future to live the life they deserve and returned, pulled back into the present. They laugh against each other’s lips when they realize they’d been staring, had paused their activities for that one moment, then let their tongues meet languidly to gently caress.

Undertaker rolls his hips with much more urgency at every passing beat, feeling himself get closer to the peak of his thrill. Vincent starts tracing the scars on his arms, just as he normally does. He traces each by memory alone, every spiral, every thorn-like edge. He last traces the scar on Undertaker’s face and neck, and by then Undertaker loses himself, wraps his arms tightly around the earl and in a honeyed voice, so desperately filled with affection, whispers in the earl’s ear, “Vincent.”

It is the combination of that saccharine call of his name, plus the forceful rush of Undertaker’s thrusting, making his back skid against silk again and again, that makes Vincent come as well, strings of come landing between their stomachs.

Undertaker falls unto Vincent when the high has been ridden out completely, energy having left their bodies as they try to catch their breath. They only realize then how cramped it is for two people to be in the same casket, especially when sticky with sweat (and come).

Vincent kisses what his lips could reach, Undertaker’s shoulder and neck, once he’s recuperated.

/Blessed youth/, Undertaker thinks, attributing Vincent’s vigor to his young age. When he finally has enough energy to get off of Vincent and sit up, the younger grabs both his arms to keep him still. He sees a wicked glint in the younger’s eyes, accompanied by an even more heinous grin.

“Which casket should I try next?”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “Did we fuck last night?”  
> WARNINGS: sexual themes, somewhat explicit  
> Note: Happens some time after June 4th. Vindie, with hints of Vintaker.

“Did we fuck last night?” Vincent asks with a voice so coated with horror, the very tone of it tears through Diedrich’s ears.

It drains him of the words to reply, as if his throat was ripped off his body to render him speechless. Why must he say that with so much disgust?

Diedrich finds himself frozen still for a moment, lacking the words upon the realization why he’s so hurt by Vincent’s tone. He /wants/ last night to mean something. Anything. Preferably pleasant, and not a nightmare Vincent would rather discard the memory of. Unfortunately to Diedrich, the latter seems to be the case.

With a voice hinting his panic, he pleads, “Vincent–”

“Hah. You’re calling me by my first name now?” Vincent laughs, laden in curt bitterness. “Please, please, do keep enlightening me what transpired last night.” He scoffs once more as he jumps off Diedrich’ bed, starts picking up his clothes from the floor, massaging his temples with one hand.

Diedrich watches the other move across his dorm room. It looks to him the Sapphire house prefect had too much to drink the night before.

The prefects held a party just for the four of them over at the Scarlet house prefect’s room, who fortunately had a stash of red wine. None of them minded the stash, save for Diedrich, who–upon verbal clash with Vincent–ended up agreeing to open a bottle (then two, then three, then until all wine is gone).

True to his German blood, Diedrich is good with alcohol. Despite downing majority of that night’s flowing wine, he was the least tipsy of the four. Vincent, however, was the opposite. He’d been giggling, and spouting non-sense by his second glass. In his drunken state, he kept leaning against Diedrich, refusing to let go of him even when they reached Diedrich’s room.

“I shouldn’t have done this. I should’ve known better than to do something like this.” He mutters, perhaps to himself, but Diedrich hears these words and it triples the stabbing pain in his chest.

“We didn’t do anything, Mole.” Diedrich sighs, leans his head back against the wall above his bed’s headrest. He looks away from Vincent, unable to take the way his body shines in the early morning light that passes through his windows.

Vincent looks at him coldly then, rivaling the darkness of unlit part of the room, and it makes Diedrich shiver at its blade-like ferocity. The Sapphire house prefect is so different now. Is this even really Vincent?

“You’re sure?” The other asks.

Diedrich’s frown deepens as he hears the shuffling of Vincent’s clothes, continuing to dress up. “Yes. We stripped until we’re naked, to–touched here and there,” he blushes at the memory of last night. Vincent’s long, thin fingers around his aching need, whispering dirty things in his ear. When he thinks of it, he can still feel the warmth of Vincent’s girth on his hand. He wants to do it again. He wants to feel all of that glorious pleasure and more. “But that’s it. We stopped right when you were going to enter–”

“Okay. That’s all I need to know.” The other prefect rudely cuts him mid-sentence, not even putting on airs of concern, not even bothering to sound polite. He slings his tie over his shoulders, then starts buttoning up his shirt. His bottoms are already on. “Bottom is, we didn’t do it. Correct?”

Diedrich clenches his jaw, knits his brows. Why must Vincent have to make the possibility of bedding Diedrich sound so appalling? Diedrich feels insulted. He could be good in bed. Probably. He’s never done it, so he can’t tell. (Come to think of it, why is Vincent so knowledgeable about how they engage in sex?)

A sharp pang upon his scalp wakes him from his thoughts, and when he looks up, he sees Vincent glaring down at him, a wicked smile pulling his lips.

“Don’t do that.” Vincent hisses, eyes twitching in disgust. His face is but a few inches away from Diedrich’s, making the darkness of his voice resound in Diedrich’s ears. Then Vincent lets him go, pats his cheeks twice before he pushes Diedrich to lie upon the pillows. Diedrich almost expects him to pounce, but Vincent simply walks away.

“Don’t make it seem like you really wanted something to happen between us.” Vincent laughs. He’s tying his necktie now, makes his way to his vest discarded upon the dresser. He checks himself on the mirror. “You don’t have to worry, though. I won’t ever do you /that/ much harm.”

Do him what harm? And how much? Diedrich wouldn’t know until months later.

When Vincent turns to face him from where he stands at the door, fully dressed now, he’s got that typical, laid-back smile of his back on. Diedrich’s heart skips beats.

“I’ll see you later, then, Dee! Thanks for having me.”

***

Even though Vincent has claimed he won’t ever do him /that/ much harm, unfaithful to his own words, his fellow prefect takes every chance he can to make a mess of Diedrich. Their tongues dance in the secret spaces of the chapel, their hips gyrate in the  wide stretch of empty corridors, they touch each other experimentally in the bushes of the gardens.

Diedrich wonders if this is all Vincent ever wanted from him, this physical, non-committed pleasure, if this is the reason why he requested Diedrich to be his fag in the first place. But if it is so, it doesn’t line up to that one night they spent together.

The Green house prefect finds himself frustrated.

Why doesn’t Vincent want to bed him?

***

“Hey, Mole. E-explain something to me.” He shivers, his breath coming out in puffs, lips quivering. They’re back in his room, Vincent hovered above him while his bottoms are discarded somewhere on the floor. The earl is stroking his length to its most heated thickness, every rough slide of Vincent’s smooth hands against his muscle bringing him closer to his highest pleasure. “W-why do we–” He gasps for breath. “Why do we do this?”

“I owe you no kindness, Dee. I don’t need to explain myself to you.” Vincent snickers against his ear, biting it next to make Diedrich mewl. “You’re to answer without question to my every beck and call, yes? Isn’t that how loyal you Germans are?”

Diedrich’s fingers clench the cloth of Vincent’s vest. This is so unfair. Why is he half-naked when the other is still fully clothed?

He wants to rebut what the earl just said, but Vincent teases the tip of his arousal in the most glorious way, and then his vision goes white, his seed spilling forth. When he’s settled down from his high, he’s already forgotten what it is he wanted to say.

***

Vincent spends about three school nights at Diedrich’s room every week. He spends the night in Diedrich’s room on weekends Diedrich doesn’t go home, too. It’s on these nights they’re most friendly, playing a game or doing homework, rather than the typical pleasuring experimenting they do.

On one such nights, when the moon is high, and Vincent snores softly beside him, Diedrich staying up ‘til the wee hours of the night (which he usually does trying to make sense of what in the world is going on between him and the boy who shares his bed), he hears Vincent weakly say (or is it plead?) one name.

***

“Do you have a particular ‘undertaker’ you favor?” Diedrich tests the waters one day, says that word that fell from Vincent’s lips when he’s asleep. The German quickly regrets it, given how absolutely furious Vincent looked, going red to his ears, looking like he was about to explode.

Vincent ignores him for an entire week.

***

“I said I was sorry.”

“Not forgiven.”

“Tch.” Diedrich rolls his eyes, munches on his sandwiches instead.

“…”

“…”

“Dee, hand me one of those.”

“No.”

“It’s an order.”

“… Here.”

“Feed me them.”

He sighs. “Say, ‘aah’.”

***

Classes are suspended that Friday due to terrible weather. Diedrich wishes Vincent would call for him, or would come to his room.

Vincent doesn’t come to him that day, but he does the following day, when the grass is still moist with fresh rain and a cool mist fills the air.

“Warm me up, Dee.” Vincent orders him, voice meek, as if drained of all energy.

With a groan, Diedrich complies, holding the other prefect close to his chest as he reads a book. They stay like that most of the day, Diedrich leaving his room to get them food when needed.

It never occurs to Diedrich that Vincent had asked of him the one request he’s always wanted him to, and missed the chance to act on it.

***

Often times, Vincent treats him harshly–claws his skin, tears at his hair, bites the areas where he feels most sensitive. (Diedrich is no longer sure if they’re sensitive from way before they started this farce, or because Vincent has bit them that much frequently.) But there are certain days when Vincent looks lonely, as is evident in his eyes, and in these times Vincent is satisfied enough cuddling next to Diedrich until he fell asleep.

It’s during these type of nights, ones where Vincent is softer, that Diedrich notices Vincent muttering that one name in his sleep.

***

Vincent has invited him to come to the Phantomhive manor for the first day of Christmas vacation. Diedrich goes, because why shouldn’t he? He must obey every order by his master, whether he wants to or not.

Diedrich is surprised when Vincent acts sweeter to him than he ever has before, from when he picks Diedrich up at his room, to how tenderly they held hands in the carriage, all the way to how he escorts him through his manor–butler (was his name Tanaka? Takana? Diedrich will note another time.) in tow.

The German starts to think that perhaps this meant Vincent was finally starting to feel he same way about him.

It never registers to Diedrich what Vincent’s true intentions, even when he meets the long, silver-haired man, who wobbles towards a nearby chair at the mere sight of Vincent, holding on dearly to someone else.

This must be him. The man who Vincent loves so much he can’t bare parting from him, tries to find him even in the spaces he doesn’t occupy, doesn’t forget his name even in his sleep.

It’s Undertaker.

***

Christmas had been good to Diedrich. The same doesn’t seem to apply to Vincent.

When classes resume that January, Vincent is sour. He would smile politely at his fellow students, like usual. The two of them have their verbal fights (which they seem to have become popular for), like usual. He performs excellently in class, like usual.

But within the four walls of Diedrich’s room, he is different–more genuine, more real, more raw.

Vincent is bitter yet sour, like Diedrich’s first sip of beer, back when his tongue couldn’t tell whether the beer was simply bitter, or exceedingly sour that his tongue numbs at the taste.

It feels strange. Vincent is only ever sweet or rough to him. This new flavor makes Diedrich uncomfortable, but as any loyal dog would, he comforts his master.

“Vincent,” he calls his name, stroking his hair as the other prefect lies on top of him in bed, arms around his torso, digging his face into Diedrich’s chest. “What’s wrong?”

Vincent simply shakes his head.

***

The same goes on for the rest of January.

Vincent stays at his room every night now, and Diedrich never goes home for the weekend.

“You’re going to get scolded for staying here all the time, you know.” Diedrich tells him one night when they lie naked in bed, arms and legs entangled, each other’s warmth their source of heat. He tries to ignore the bitter pang, the harsh reality that even when they get to lie naked like this, they never do more than touch or kiss. They never become one.

“Hmm, you like it when I’m here, so it’s okay, right?” Vincent says in a velvety tone that makes Diedrich’s feel warmth in his groin. “Oh? Ready to come again?”

Diedrich’s cheeks flush red. He supposes he can take delight in at least this. Pushing his shyness away, he licks at Vincent’s lips, begs for entrance, just as Vincent starts palming his growing erection.

Yes, Diedrich affirms. Just this is enough.

***

Vincent goes home for the first weekend of February, leaving Diedrich alone in his room that Saturday night. It feels like it’s been forever since he spent a night alone. He turns to face the side Vincent normally lies on, extends his arm out as if he’s touching his cheek, thumb brushing against his mole.

Diedrich feels a sharp pain in his chest when he wonders what Vincent could be doing right then with his Undertaker.

***

Vincent comes back to Weston College that Sunday night. He isn’t in a good mood. Diedrich can tell by the way Vincent’s breathing is harsh, shoulders heaving laboriously, eyes dark with angered embers, jaws clenched with fierce spite.

It’s been a while since Vincent had been rough with him, so it makes a shiver run up Diedrich’s spine in anticipation. Diedrich welcomes Vincent into his room with open arms.

***

More often than not throughout February, Diedrich gets asked about bite marks on his cheek. Only by his batch mates. No one else ever dares ask about them.

“It’s my pillow.” Diedrich explains, “I got a new one with sequins that makes marks on my face.”

No one buys it, he’s sure. It’s a lame excuse, but it’s enough to prevent anyone from pressing about it any further, so it’s alright.

It pushes everyone away except Midford.

“Perhaps you should have it checked,” his fag worries over him, eyebrows knit, fingers clenched together as if in prayer. “You haven’t been feeling well lately either, have you?You haven’t been sleeping well, it seems.”

“Alright, Midford.” Diedrich nods his head at him. What a true, dedicated little brother he has. “Thank you for your concern. I’ll have it checked when I go home this weekend.”

Midford smiles at him, looking like a precious puppy adorned with flowers. “Alright!”

“So tell me, how was the fencing tournament last weekend?”

“Oh, you wouldn’t believe what happened. A girl entered the tournament! Can you believe it? Her name is Frances, and she beat me, but boy, was she strong!”

“And beautiful?”

“Stronger than beautiful, but yes! She looked heavenly.”

Diedrich laughs, patting Midford on the back. “So you fell head over heels for her, eh? That sounds excellent, Midford!”

***

Vincent had gone home that weekend to watch his sister play, or so he said. (Diedrich isn’t sure which sport.) But when he comes back he looks worse for wear than ever.

Just what is it that happens to him when he goes home? Diedrich wishes he could keep Vincent with him forever.

***

“Did we fuck last night?” is Vincent’s first question every morning now. There are still a few days off until graduation, and neither of them ever want to go home, spending all free time in Diedrich’s room.

Diedrich isn’t sure why he would ask this repeatedly, why he would forget the answer as if he’d erase it from his mind the first chance he gets.

“No, we didn’t.” is always the answer. Is always the truth. Is always the very, painful truth.

“Good.” Vincent would say every time.

And so another piece of Diedrich’s heart crumbles away.

He hopes one day he can put a stop to this, being used by Vincent to seek comfort from whatever it is that causes him pain, but it takes years before Diedrich realizes this, takes decades before he fills up with enough despair that he at least /attempts/ to break off from Vincent.

Yet his heart houses a love for Vincent so big, so grand, so true, it transcends even Vincent’s death.

********************

Omake

“Did we fuck last night?” Diedrich pulls the covers over himself to cover his naked body, leaving none for his partner to cover himself with. The German eyes scars shaped like rose whips, going across the other’s chest, neck, arms. “Did we– Did we fu— Goodness. I’m gonna hurl.”

The Undertaker laughs, in the way Diedrich has always known him to, but there’s a certain trill to it that isn’t as joyous as it normally is. Diedrich knows why. “Yes, we did. Vincent sure has taught you all that I taught him.” He cracks up once more. “And my, my, my, you sure have quite the sense of humor, /Dee/.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Oh, oops. Only /he/ calls you that, huh?” Undertaker stands up from the bed. His voice is serious when he speaks once more. “Don’t worry. We won’t ever do it again. I just…” He turns to look out the window, looks into the horizon where the sun starts to peek through. “I just needed a reminder is all.”

“A reminder?” Diedrich wonders what he means. Undertaker always has spoken in puzzles. He never knew if Vincent understood him though.

Undertaker turns to Diedrich, stunning the German with the sadness in his eyes. “The world still turns, even when he’s not here.” He sighs. “Sad, isn’t it?”

They both fall silent, gazes upon the floor.

Vincent is dead, has been buried just the day before, next to the woman they both lost him to.

None of them speak another word, and they never meet again, but they forever will continue to share in that harrowing silence that the world has forever lost Vincent Phantomhive.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary: There’s a certain memory Vincent keeps precious, so precious he believes it must be engraved to his soul.  
> Note: Written upon seeing Kuroshitsuji Chapter 108 spoilers, meaning /before/ the chapter came out. I'm still convinced that is Vincent. How it could be possible--I'm not sure, but that's what I'll stick to.

There’s a certain memory Vincent keeps precious, so precious he believes it must be engraved to his soul.

He was thirteen, and he was lying sick in bed for days, each one feeling like it stretched on for years. No one but the doctor or the maid bringing in his food were allowed to enter his room, leaving him in the darkness (supposedly to aid his rest). He felt shiveringly cold, numbly tired, and most of all, lonely.

He remembers the careful whispers of Frances praying at his door, wishing her brother well. He remembers the soft but firm footsteps of his mother’s heels, prominent even on carpet flooring as she approaches him in bed, before his usual bed time. She would cradle him in her arms and kiss his forehead, thinking he’s asleep (and sometimes Vincent thought he must be, for the times his mother shows this soft side to her is far in between).

It is these little things that gave him warmth, gave him strength, made him feel less lonely. Each is a good, powerful pull away from the darkness that tries to take him away from his body, into a cold void, to a world beyond. He must’ve constantly been at death’s door the entire time he was in bed, or so Vincent believed.

But one night he was saved.

On the night he felt most particularly frail, like he was about to disintegrate to mist at how meek he felt to the bone, he felt a warm presence sit down beside him. He first thinks it’s his mother, but she doesn’t feel as rigid as this body beside him.

He hears a soft, male voice, and though muffled as it is behind the filter of white noise that’s been constant in his ears as he lays in bed, he knows this voice. He’s certain of it. His heart starts beating at a faster rate.

He feels sharp nails and slender fingers cup his left cheek, tracing a curve from his mole down to his lips. The fingers guide him, makes his lips part, close, and lifts his chin make him drink liquid… Is it medicine? It is bitter at first, but slowly gets sweeter that he doesn’t feel the need to spit it out immediately.

He slowly opens his eyes, rubbing his right eye, and he sees before him the man he so adores, eyes sparkling green, brighter than the moonlight that shines upon his gracious silver hair. His face is even more handsome in the dark.

“Uncle Taker?” He speaks, though he’s not sure if his voice is audible. The man wraps fingers around Vincent’s small wrist, as if taking a pulse. “Is it… morning?”

“No,” Undertaker chuckles, pressing a kiss to Vincent’s open palm. “Not quite yet.”

When Undertaker puts a hand over his eyes for them to close, the slender fingers are warm. It helps Vincent drift off to sleep, his body slowly getting better with every breath he takes. Even as he sleeps, he feels that the figure next to him never leaves until the sun has risen.

Vincent is never sure if that was a mere dream or wondrous reality, but he keeps it in his heart, in his soul, forever.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: You’re the only one I want.  
> WARNING: underage, sexually explicit
> 
> Set after the part where Vincent asks Taker to comfort him for the death of his mother.

The fifteen year old is a virgin, Undertaker is sure (and for this, he feels slightly apologetic). Vincent’s taking long to adjust to slender fingers in his ass, and taking even longer to relax his breathing, are the man’s sure signs Vincent dared not explore his body this far during his stay in the small, closed world of Weston. (Which is a relief.) Vincent’s kissing skills, however, quite the opposite of the aforementioned, are well-honed–intentionally messy, even–sweet-tasting and delicious, that Undertaker has to tell himself he must not feed the anger he feels towards damned brats who dared claim Vincent’s lips before him.

These thoughts surprise Undertaker. Never had he realized he was this concerned with Vincent, that he’d bear a boiling anger in his veins at the thought of him being touched by someone else. The child always had his attention, he remembers–from the time Vincent was still within his mother’s womb, even until now, when she’s died, and oh, how Undertaker’s heart still weeps for her. His love. Rather, his… /once/ love. In these past few unchaste moments he’s spent with Vincent, giving him enough time to clear Claudia out of his mind, he realizes he doesn’t feel as empty as he thought he did. He finds he is being filled with the passion of the boy who’s always sought his attention (which, looking back now, he willingly gave it each time).

“Uncle Taker,” the boy begs between short breaths, begging for his attention yet again. His voice is croaky under the weight of tears, throat scratched by his constant gasping due to Undertaker’s fingers stretching him wide. “Uncle Taker,” he keeps repeating, bewitching moans sandwiching the name, filling Undertaker by the ears with a stinging bliss he never imagined he could feel.

“Yes, little Phantomhive?” Undertaker teases, licks the shell of the boy’s ear. Vincent groans at the name as he shudders at the tantalizing wetness in his ear. “Ah, yes, yes, forgive me. You’re not so little anymore, are you?” He whispers low, leaning his hips down so his arousal could brush harder against Vincent’s own. A sharp, silent gasp escapes Vincent’s lips, and with a wild shudder, liquid spurts from the tip of his arousal, though not his release.

“Uncle… P-please…” The boy whispers, voice shattered, like the glass of a broken window.

“Yes?”

“E–/ggh/” The boy’s voice heightens in pitch when the fingers touch the spot he feels most pleasured. He pants, chest heaving, shoulders shaking. “E… Enough… with the fingers… I need you…”

Undertaker heeds the fragmented plea, drinks in the intoxicating tune of Vincent’s moaning against his ears when he replaces fingers with his girth. He thrusts powerfully into the boy’s tightness. He shouldn’t engage in this with someone so young, shouldn’t take Claudia’s precious son, shouldn’t take advantage of someone so broken by the loss of their mother, yet here he is, thrusting violently into Vincent’s heated tension that fits delectably around him.

The man groans loud when he’s managed to fully sheath his length, pausing to feel the tightness around him. The boy moans pleased, and Undertaker hopes it’s due to delight in being filled. Undertaker doesn’t wait for the boy to calm his breathing, starts thrusting himself more aggressively into the boy, making Vincent squirm beneath him, endlessly screeching and moaning, pulling at silver hair, scratching the white skin of Undertaker’s shoulder. The boy’s face shifts from pleasure to pain, perhaps due to stretch after repeated stretch of a hole not meant to be drawn this wide, yet Vincent does not push Undertaker away. Vincent simply keeps pulling him closer.

“Little Phantomhive…” whispers Undertaker, soft and filled with concern. Perhaps he /had/ gone too far, he thinks, when the boy simply sobs in reply, fingernails digging crescents unto his skin. Undertaker brushes a tear away with his thumb, letting it rest upon the boy’s mole on his left cheek. “Vincent…”

Undertaker is taken by surprise when the boy’s eyes, glassy with the tears that had kept coming, open wide in shock. His jaw drops open. “Did you… Did you just call me…”

The man swallows, stretching out his arm so he could properly stare into the boy’s eyes. So deep, so mesmerizing, so different from his mother’s eyes. He smiles, happy the boy seems to be in less pain. Was this the magic of a mere name? He repeats. “Vincent.”

The boy’s lips tremble before his lips widen into a smile. “Taker…” He whispers, with a pleading desperation of a prayer, feather light at the tip of his throat. Vincent pulls at long strands of silver hair, pulling the man’s head down to his level to take his lips. They kiss slow, steady, without rush. Undertaker loses himself in the languid pace, doesn’t notice how his climax comes over him within the next few thrusts, Vincent coming with him. Their pleasured moans continue harmonize between their lips, even long after they’ve reached their high.

***

“How was that, little Phantomhive? Feel comforted?” Undertaker pokes the boy’s cheek as they lie side by side, facing each other. Vincent lying on his right, Undertaker on his left.

“Yes, and more.” Vincent smiles confidently, though a blush colors his cheeks. He’s twirling strands of silver hair around his fingers. “Thank you, Uncle Taker.”

“Now that you know the joys of being taken, perhaps you’ll play around with your Weston buds, hmm?” Undertaker laughs, though his heart isn’t in the joke at all. He doesn’t want anyone to ever touch Vincent.

He stops laughing when Vincent keeps staring at him, stays silent for a few moments.

“You’re the only one I want, Taker.” says Vincent, with determination. “I won’t ever do it with anyone else. Ever.”

Undertaker lets the words sink in, fills his heart with them. And then he jokes. “We shall see about that, eh, Earl?”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Yeah, yeah, I know how this goes. I'll grab my clothes and get out of here  
> WARNING: hint of underage
> 
> This happens before the Christmas when Vincent takes Diedrich home to show Undertaker.

The sun streams in from the window when Diedrich wakes up, flashes of white in his world ablur. He blinks his eyes over and over, struggling to win against the weight of sleep as he tries to make clear his sight. He sits up, a hand on the bed to keep himself upright, his head throbbing as he puts his forehead in his other hand. When he takes in a deep breath, he takes notice of the birds that have been singing good mornings outside the window. (A little annoying, but soothing still.)

When his vision clears, he looks to his right. There lies the beautiful teen Diedrich expressed his affection to the night before, showering him in touches and kisses that the sleeping one could never see as ‘love’ but only ‘pleasure’.

Diedrich’s fingers run a smooth line down the other’s arm, before he himself realizes what he’s doing. He arches forward, plants a firm kiss on a warm shoulder, another “I love you” unsaid. The moment his lips part from velvet skin, the teen beside him starts to awake, eyebrows furrowing, lips pressing to a thin line as he slowly wakes. Diedrich doesn’t wait for him to open his eyes to get out of bed.

“Dee?” Vincent’s voice comes out as a croak from behind Diedrich as the German picks up his clothes.

“Yeah, yeah. I know how this goes.” His own words are stabs to his chest, each one dealing a heavier blow than the former. His father would think him undisciplined, but he curses to himself in German in his mind. “See? I’m grabbing my clothes, and getting out of here.”

Vincent doesn’t say anything for a while, but Diedrich feels the weight of his eyes on him. The Earl watches Diedrich slip on his clothes, piece per piece. It’s uncomfortable (although exhilarating somewhat), strange that Vincent’s eyes cling onto Diedrich in a way his hands wouldn’t dare to. It’s always Diedrich that reaches out—exposes himself, makes himself vulnerable, offers himself (everything and anything) to the Earl so the Earl would take anything, even just a tiny bit, for himself.

Of course, Vincent never takes a part of him.

Except—

“Stay here today, Dee.”

Diedrich’s head turns swiftly to the Phantomhive Earl, unbelieving of what he’s just heard. He clears his throat, trying to push down his heart which threatens to jump out of his mouth. What glorious excitement is summoned from him at such a simple request. “W-were you not supposed to be picked up at 10 o’clock today?”

“I’ll skip on it.” Vincent winks at him, smirk smug on his face as he props on his elbows. Diedrich isn’t sure if he sees it properly, but somehow Vincent’s eyes hold a different emotion. They seem a little… empty. “We can have /loads/ of fun instead.”

“What kind do you suggest?”

“Come over and take off that vest, and then we’ll talk.”

Diedrich does as ordered, true to his being a loyal German dog. Rather than talking with words, however, they converse through soft touches—Vincent mirroring Diedrich’s. They reach different heights of pleasures that morning before they finally head to the cafeteria to fill their stomachs, only to return to Vincent’s room to fill the voids they each house in their chests.

***

“Take your clothes and leave, little Phantomhive.”

Vincent doesn’t know what hurts more. Being asked to leave when he’s still aroused, or being called by that childish nickname when Undertaker had just been moaning his name moments before. No, he’s not done. No, he didn’t mean to ask. No, he hasn’t had enough fill of Undertaker just yet, so please, /please/ don’t pull out. Don’t say those words.

“T-Taker, I’m sor—”

“It is alright. I know you hadn’t meant to ask.” Undertaker says, in a voice that seems like he’s mourning, yet he laughs right after, a little crazily considering how serious the mood is. His voice turns deadly. “However, I must ask you to leave.”

The sixteen year old clenches his jaw as he slips off bed. He’s silent, tries not to sniffle while he keeps the tears from falling, as he picks his clothes up from the floor. Stupid, Vincent. Shouldn’t have brought Mother up. Shouldn’t ever compare himself to her. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

***

It’s been years since then, but the pang in his chest is still fresh. Undertaker hasn’t asked him to leave quite as abruptly as he did ever since then, but only because Vincent has been cautious not to ask or say the wrong things.

But that question still bothers the Phantomhive Earl. Even when he knows it shouldn’t.

Does Undertaker finally love Vincent more than he ever loved his mother?

He tries to push these thoughts—unhealthy, toxic, venomous—away. Instead, he lets Diedrich shower and drown him with the affection he always thirsts for from Undertaker. Why can he not ever be sure if he’s the only one that remains in those lovely, yellow-green eyes? How can he prove to himself that Undertaker loves him above all?

These questions drive him to make one of the worst decisions he ever could.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Maybe I was wrong. I don't need you in my life.

Undertaker had been convinced. If Vincent were ever to commit to anything or anyone, it would be to him. He had seen him grow—from the time the boy was eight, until now when the boy is eighteen—and all throughout those years, the only constant had been him alone. Undertaker, growing from the uncle Vincent loves to tease, to the uncle Vincent looks up to, and eventually, to the once uncle who became Vincent’s lover.

It never occurred to the reaper he could be wrong.

***

“I simply don’t know what to do with him, Taker. He can’t commit to /anything/.” Claudia heaves a weighted sigh after she sips her tea.

The reaper is munching on bone-shaped cookies the chef prepared for him, having been reprimanded by Claudia for eating dog biscuits before. (“Don’t ever eat those in front of me again, you hear?” “But why are you mad at me? It was the little Phantomhive boy that fed me them first.”)

“Perhaps he’s at a rebellious phase.” he says, accentuated by his unique laughter.

“One that started in his childhood?” Claudia throws him a stern look, a sharp smile pulling her lips and an eyebrow raised in question, yet her purple eyes sparkle in the midday sun that’s finally come out to peek from the clouds, shining its wondrous rays upon her. He is left breathless by her radiant beauty.

Before he could reply, for the words have died on his tongue, there is a small knocking at their door, and when it opens, little Francis’ head peeks through.

“Come in, Francis.” She urges her over with that motherly voice of hers, kind although firm. Undertaker watches the tinier version of Claudia walk up to her, carrying the grace of a lady at a ball, even though they’re only at home. “What is wrong?”

“May I please use a real sword when sparring with Vincent and make him know his place?” says the twelve year old, her tone filled with confidence, tinted by annoyance at her brother.

“Now, now, Francis. Whatever you two may be arguing about, it could be dealt with peaceful talks, could it not?” Claudia takes one of the cakes from the layered plates, and puts it on her own plate. Tanaka pours her another serving of tea, Undertaker chuckling at Francis’ demise.

“I have had /enough/ of his tricks, Mother! He simply never learns, and neither does he stop. He also never listens when I tell him to fix his hair.”

“My hair is fine the way it is, thank you.” says the boy leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, smug smirk on his lips. He starts to walk over to where the two adults sit by the window, Francis obviously put out. Undertaker notes he’s taller than he’d last seen him. Perhaps the boy could reach his chest now. My, how time flies. “Good day, Uncle Taker.” says the young boy, standing tall and proud at thirteen, but courteous enough to bow to him once he’s near enough.

“Same to you, little Phantomhive.” Undertaker keeps munching on his biscuits.

“Mother,” The young boy turns to his mother now. “I /was/ trying to reason with her. /She’s/ the one that all of a sudden brought out her sparring sword—”

“Which he broke!”

“My, my, my. See? You’re so /rash/, Francis.” The little Phantomhive chuckles darkly. “You’ll never be wed at this rate.”

Francis gasps so sharp, Undertaker could swear she could have inhaled the biscuits in front of them. (He decides to put a hand over them, just in case.) “Excuse me?” Francis’ voice reaches an octave higher than her usual. “That’s it! You and me, brother. To the sparring ha—”

“/Vincent/.” Their mother’s very tone is reprimanding, powerful enough to make it seem like the entire room shook. “You should not treat your sister this way.”

The boy groans, and for a moment he looks toward Undertaker, who takes his gaze with a questioning tilt of his head. “Must you reprimand me in front of uncle, Mother?” The boy says through clenched teeth, cheeks flushed.

“You caused your own demise.” Claudia seems like she’s keeping her own eyes from rolling. “Now, please, we all must act like adults here. Be polite to each other. Shake hands, make up, and continue on with your lesson. Tanaka—”

“Yes, my Lady?”

“Please escort them back to where Miss Clarke waits for them to come back.”

“Of course.”

Before the children could walk away, Undertaker speaks up, although he doesn’t look toward them. He’s busy gazing at Claudia, admiring her ferocity, even when she’s disciplining her children. She never fails to amaze him. “You should listen to your mother, children.” He hooks a finger into the cup’s handle (finding it a little difficult with his long nail), and brings the tea to his lips. He looks toward the children from behind the cup. “Your mother here is raising you both to become capable adults, gifting you with talents to aid in your future endeavors. So, what should you do?”

The two gaze at him, wondering what point he’s trying to get across.

“Focus well in your lessons, and take all matters seriously. Commit to your promises. Face each strife with determination.” Then he laughs, dropping three cubes of sugar into his tea (newly poured by Tanaka) and mixing them. “While enjoying everything, of course.”

Undertaker keeps laughing then, distracted by his tea, so he doesn’t realize how deeply Vincent takes his words into heart.

***

Or perhaps, that is what made Undertaker assume Vincent would be so loyal to him, fervently devoted to him and him alone.

Vincent, at thirteen (almost fourteen), had listened to his words, and engrained them to his very lifestyle. He became much more earnest with his studies, lessons at Weston or at home, and he’d made a conscious effort to stop his streak of losing interest halfway. He even stopped playing tricks on both Francis and Undertaker by his birthday that same year.

Perhaps, expecting Vincent to keep a loyal streak, when he’d always been fickle, was Undertaker’s mistake.

His world completely crumbled when Vincent came home from Weston, showing him (rather than telling him) that he’s fallen for another, for a mere /dog/ out of all sorts of people. The reaper’s world became mere ash when he wed a woman, and had a child with her.

Yet—

As soon as Vincent came back into his life, Undertaker found himself leaning towards that light of his. Undertaker is ever loyal to the Phantomhive earl, no matter how many times his feelings are betrayed.

But he knows, deep down to his soul, the possibility is always there. He will never know when he wakes up one day to the sight of Vincent Phantomhive dressing up (rather than naked beside him, smiling warmly when he greets him ‘Good morning’), disgust evident on the earl’s perfect face, and a poisonous “Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I /don’t/ need you in my life.” slipping past his precious lips, tainting the blood in Undertaker’s veins until his heart is filled with rotten muck.

He’d rather have it this way, Undertaker surmises.

He would rather live with this uncertainty—that Vincent could leave. Because it also leaves the possibility he would crawl right back.

Undertaker would rather be uncertain in this manner, rather than live with the certainty of never getting to see Vincent again—breathless, hopeless, burnt to ash.

And oh, how wrong he would be again.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No specific prompt.   
> Set sometime after Claudia’s death, but before Vincent turns 16.

Silver hair falls as soft swirls on his chest, pooling near his abdomen as his lover hovers over him. Every strand is a magical touch upon Vincent’s skin, sparkles sizzling upon where it falls. Vincent feels like he has become a cup to catch each otherworldly piece of beauty. He loves Undertaker’s hair so much, fond of how silky it is. He can still remember how he had been convinced a sliver of the moon’s silver lining had fallen at their doorstep the first time he’d seen his Uncle Taker.

For so long, /so/ long, Vincent had to bear the hollowing heartache of his uncle pining for his mother. It had been a direct jab at his chest whenever he looked at Undertaker, and Undertaker looked at his mother with a longing gaze that never dared part from her. But now, these eyes—these enchanting yellow-green eyes—they gaze only at him, and show the man’s /lust/ for him and his barely developed body.

Vincent is awkward, and is clumsy, and is still growing in many ways, parts of his body feeling temporary, yet he gives Undertaker what he can, and Undertaker takes what he gives. Sometimes, Vincent wonders just how much of this is real. That maybe his uncle is only too kind, and does these unspeakable acts with him merely to amuse himself, yet Undertaker proves himself otherwise.

The proof of trueness to Undertaker’s actions lies in the softness of his touches, in the sweetness of his lips against Vincent’s skin, in the ways he catches Vincent, finds and fixes the boy, makes the young earl new again. Although Undertaker’s hands are used to touching the dead, his hands only make Vincent feel so alive, so /whole/, so full.

Vincent feels long fingers touch his left cheek now, his eyes refocusing upon yellow-green that shimmer in the moonlight, tearing him away from his thoughts. He blinks his eyes, attempting to see clearer in what little light there is in the room. He lifts his small hand to reach Undertaker’s cheek. His thumb traces the scar across his uncle’s beautiful face.

“Are you alright, little Phantomhive?” Undertaker asks, his voice soft, yet the volume doesn’t hide his concern. “Should I stop?”

“No!” Vincent immediately replies, practically shouts it upon urgency. But his voice does not cooperate, cracking in the midst of him saying, “Please… keep going. Don’t—Don’t stop.”

His fingers clutch tighter upon the man’s face, and he knows his voice is coated with his desperation. He hopes and hopes and hopes Undertaker doesn’t stop now. Isn’t he about to come soon? He has no reason to stop, does he? Does he not satisfy him enough?

Undertaker takes the boy’s fingers in his, kissing each slender finger to chase away his worries. “I won’t stop, I assure you, but I shall pause for a moment.” Undertaker hushes the complaint already coming out of Vincent’s lips. “You’re not relaxed, see? You must breathe. Okay? Can you do that for me?”

Vincent’s lips quiver, whimpering at how gentle his uncle’s tone is. He nods his head slowly.

“Alright, mimic me. Breathe in—”

Vincent follows his uncle’s instructions, breathing in, breathing out. With every full breath he takes, he feels his eyesight coming into focus. He hadn’t even realized how blurred his world had become until it cleared up. A few more deep breaths, and he can start to feel the heat that’s been rushing in his veins, how full his lungs are with breath, how the cold night air kisses his skin, and in his ass—

Undertaker laughs softly, in that unique way of his. Vincent is sure his face is as red as a tomato by then, if the way his cheeks feel so hot is anything to go by.

The young earl can actually /feel him/. He can feel his beloved uncle inside of him, pulsing where it was painful moments ago, stretching him wide. Vincent has never had a chance before this to truly appreciate how hot and thick Undertaker feels within him. He feels a shiver go up his spine due to this pleasure, and when his insides squeeze around the other’s arousal, he only feels himself get closer to his peak.

His uncle laughs a little louder this time. “Are you going to come without me moving, hmm?” A kiss to Vincent’s left cheek, then to his right, and then his tongue is at Vincent’s right ear, making the boy beneath him tremble. “Vincent?”

Vincent visibly shudders, his hands jolting up to grip upon the sheets, beads of white spurting from his arousal’s tip. His breathing becomes shaky, and starts to gasp for breath, like he’s forgotten how to breathe again.

“Oh, no, no, my little sweet.” Undertaker pushes Vincent’s hair off his forehead with his right hand. He kisses the boy there. “Relax, okay? Breathe in,” he instructs, Vincent follows. “Breathe out.”

“Uncle Taker…” Vincent pleads, his voice squeezing at the tip of his throat as it softens to whispers. “I can’t anymore… I’m… soon…”

“Ssshh, it’s okay, you can come.” Undertaker tucks Vincent’s hair behind his ear and kisses his cheek. His lips trail down to Vincent’s neck, sucking on sensitive skin.

Vincent whimpers at his uncle’s ministrations. Everything feels too good, too amazing, as it always does whenever he’s in bed with him. (Always like a dream come true.) Vincent’s fingers grip tighter upon the sheets when he feels his uncle pull out partly, then push back in. Groans start to tear from his throat as his uncle increases his pace, the groan turning into a loud moan when Undertaker hits him just /right/. It makes his head fall back, opening more areas for Undertaker to suck on his neck.

The young earl tries so hard to keep holding on, to keep himself from coming, but there is simply so much to feel good about—Undertaker’s lips and hair on his skin, Undertaker filling and stretching him, Undertaker’s body covering his own, warming him up in ways he’d fantasized for so long. Undertaker. Undertaker. Undertaker.

“T-Taker…” slips his lips as his fluids gush forth, unable to stop himself. The name tastes as exquisite in his mouth as the wild shiver that travels across his body. (Though, who is he kidding? It’s the one name that will taste the sweetest on his tongue no matter how many times he says it.) The pulses of pleasure increase as Undertaker keeps thrusting into him, stays at his rapid pace, seemingly pushing farther with every shove. Each thrust takes the peak of Vincent’s pleasure higher than it already was.

Vincent sees color before his eyes, flashing to white as he feels the rush slowly settle down. He lies spent in bed, mouth open agape, when Undertaker comes inside of him with a long, loud grunt. The rush of Undertaker’s come spurting within him is the ultimate sprinkle to this wonderful sundae, and sends more tremors across his young body.

The young earl feels the hollowness of his backside once Undertaker pulls out, pouting because he wants to stay connected. Undertaker leaves his side quickly, the emptiness growing, but is giddy as an excited dog when his uncle comes back to his side.

“Don’t rush.” Undertaker tells him when Vincent tries to sit up, but fails. “Let me clean you up.”

“T-thank you…” Vincent tries not to blush as he feels warm cloth touch his body. He tries not to be too aware of where the cloth touches. He can’t stop his body from tensing when the man starts to wipe towards his ass, and when he hears the squirting of liquid out of his asshole, he hides his face behind his hands. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, coming out muffled through his hands, his voice shaking.

A kiss to his knee makes Vincent peek between his fingers. He sees his uncle between his legs. What a sight to behold. “Why are you apologizing?”

Vincent turns away, his hands covering his whole face again. “Y-your… Your come spilled out.”

“That’s alright. That’s what clean up is for.” Undertaker chuckles. Vincent wishes he could see the smile on his face, but is still too embarrassed to take his hands away from his face. “Lift your hips.” He follows as instructed, feeling hot behind his ears when the cloth reaches between his buttcheeks with a swipe. “Alright, that should do it.”

Vincent simply nods his head, and when he feels the bed shift upon Undertaker’s weight, he rolls away from him.

“Hey, now.” Undertaker catches him by the waist and pulls him closer so that his wide chest touches Vincent’s narrower back. “Don’t run away.”

Vincent feels fireworks on his skin wherever Undertaker kisses, each touch of lips feeling too surreal. (Everything still feels too much like a dream.)

He turns to face his uncle, who kisses him near his eye (on his mole, maybe?) as soon as he could reach it. He looks up at the man, yellow-green eyes shining in the moonlight. Vincent can’t ever get enough of this sight. A sight not even his mother saw. A sight that is his and his alone. Vincent smiles at that. Taker is /his/.

“What are you smiling about, hmm? Planning any more tricks?” Undertaker grins, running his fingers through the boy’s damp hair, keeping them away from his face.

Vincent shakes his head. “Never.” He simply stares, admiring his long-time love, admissions of his feelings attempting to exit his throat, but he traps them down. It is not time. Not yet.

“Well, you better close your eyes.” Undertaker puts a hand over his eyes. “You should get some sleep. You’re off on business tomorrow, yes?”

“Right.” He digs his head into the crook of Undertaker’s net, inhaling the other’s scent, exhaling with a pleased hum. “You’ll come with me, right?”

“Of course.” Undertaker pulls him closer. Vincent has never felt so at home. “I shall be by your side and protect you.”

“Thank you.” Vincent says, or at least he thinks so. With his eyes closed, and Undertaker enveloping him in warmth, he slowly falls asleep. He couldn’t wish for this evening to get any better than it did.


End file.
